The Guardians' Discharge
by Comeback to the World
Summary: The Guardians have devoted themselves to the protection of the world's children; what happens when they fail? After an increasing set of tragedies occurs, the Guardians are disbanded, told to carry out their holidays and jobs but to do nothing else. The children of the world are no longer under their protection, so when a new threat rises, who will stand against them? Full of OCs.
1. Prologue

Prologue:

It started off small. A single little boy's tears over dropping his sucker in the sand, his overalls covered in mud from his long day playing. Nothing that a mother's calm smile can't cure.

It wasn't long until it escalated. A scary face in the bedroom window, nightmares haunting their dreams, things that they loved disappearing without cause, never to be seen again. The fear and evil acts continued to rise.

It wasn't long until children began running away from home, feeling unsafe in their own beds.

It wasn't long until one died. Officers had no way of explaining it other than a complete accident. The child had simply run out into the street, tripping over a simple crack in the road into oncoming traffic. It was tragic but explainable. In truth, no one, not even the Guardians, saw it as an issue.

It wasn't long until the issues began to rise. More and more children disappeared, fewer and fewer lights began to glow on North's globe. The big, jolly, strong man with the tattooed arms would go to it, every day, shaking his head in fear of what was happening. He feared that Pitch had returned, but there would have been more signs; Pitch was far too dramatic to go unnoticed in these dark times. North could only continue focusing on his work, continuing to oversee the yetis and elves as they went about their business.

It wasn't long until the storms started, raging tornadoes and lightning storms ransacked the American coastline, but it was simply written off as natural, a hurricane that was going to hit at any time.

It wasn't long until the problems could no longer go unnoticed.


	2. Chapter 1: The Summons

Jack Frost alighted along one of the rooftops of the small, suburban township, his messy white hair hidden partially by the blue hood he had pulled over it. His staff lay lightly on his shoulder, and he smiled as he watched his longtime friend, Jamie Bennett, skateboard past the fuchsia colored flat. It hadn't been long since his family had to move to Iowa for business, and Jack made it a point to give him at least two snow days a year With a hop and a skip, Jack flew down, the winds carrying him beside his friend.

"So, Jamie, I see you decided to grow your hair out," Jack said, laughing as he flew. The boy he knew was long gone. First off, he was taller and stronger, a star linebacker now. His long brown hair, before short and messy, had grown down to the base of his neck. If it weren't for the young man's smile, he would not even have recognized Jamie Bennett.

"Jack!" He whispered clearly, not wanting anyone else to hear him. "I haven't seen you in, like, forever! Not since Christmas two years ago!"

Jack laughed a little while they moved. "Sorry about that, Jay. It's been a crazy couple of years." In truth, ever since Pitch's defeat eight years before, things had spiraled into chaos for Jack Frost. He never knew that being a Guardian would be so demanding; since he was the only Guardian without any real holiday or occupation, he was often sent to investigate small disturbances. These could include anything from a child not receiving his quarter from the Tooth Fairy (it had simply fallen onto the floor in their tossing and turning) to a child not getting what they wanted for Christmas (it had simply been buried deep under the tree) to kids not finding the Easter Bunny's eggs.

Jack assumed that Peter Rabbit had played a cruel trick on him with that one.

Now, with the recent disturbances, Jack was even busier than ever.

Jamie smiled, his brown eyes glinting with belief. Of all of the children involved in Pitch's defeat, Jamie and his sister were the only two to still believe. No matter what happened, he stayed resolute. "It's fine, Jack. Thanks for the snow days by the way! I got out of two tests with those!"

"Anytime, buddy. Just happy you're having fun." Jack felt tired; he hadn't slept much these past couple of nights, sensing something incredibly dark on the horizon. Working around the clock had taken its toll on the white haired spirit, as well as the recent death of the little girl.

Noticing Jack's somber gaze, Jamie stopped and looked him in the eyes. "Something happened, didn't it? Something bad?"

Jack nodded slowly, not knowing how much he should tell his friend. "Lots of somethings, to tell you the truth, Jay, but nothing that you need to worry your big head about. Now, tell me about that girl you've been seeing!" The two continued talking in this fashion, unaware of the chaos the other Guardians were facing.

…

"What is matter with this machine?!" North yelled, kicking at the center console of the sleigh. He was scheduled to meet with the Tooth Fairy in her palace, but the sleigh refused to start up. This had never happened before; usually, the sleigh would purr even North walked within a few feet of it, but the central power supply wasn't cooperating, and many of the Reindeer with sick; one of the elves had fed them chocolate, which they love but to which they are allergic.

A yeti ran up to him, screaming in his deep babbling language, his hairy body shedding slightly on the frozen ramp. He slipped and fell, sliding and crashing into the sleigh, causing it to roar to life. "Ha ha!" North yelled, his accent thick as he fixed his black fur hat and red coat. "What do you want, yeti? I have important appointment to make!"

It babbled something, Santa nodding his head in understanding, eyes widening from the truth behind the words. "Manny wishes to speak to the Guardians? Together? Why? Did he tell you?"

The yeti babbled something else, obviously irritated. "Yes, yes, I know he is slightly rude to you yetis, but that is only because he is busy." The yeti slapped his head and walked away, not wanting to talk to North anymore. North exited his sleigh and returned to his station in front of the massive, lighted globe. The lights of children who believed had decreased recently, but it still shined with a happy glow. North looked out the roof hatch toward the moon, toward Manny and shrugged his shoulders. He grasped the wooden handle of a nearby switch and with a strong handed turn and push, he released the aurora, the signal to the other Guardians.

…

Tsar Lunar lounged in his easy chair, his pudgy belly nearly popping a button on his vest. He looked around at the verifiable castle he had crafter and laughed a high pitched, happy laugh. His life was good, and though the issues on earth constantly plagued his mind, he allowed himself this break.

The break wouldn't last; suddenly, the metal form of Nightlight, Lunar's childhood protector, ran into the room, cradling his spear lightly. He seemed worried, for some reason, and Nightlight was never worried. He was a machination meant to illuminate the darkness, removing the fear from children. He couldn't fear, but his face showed only fear.

"What is it, dear friend?" Tsar said, sitting up in his stone throne, his pudgy face showing concern.

Nightlight pointed to Earth, visible far above them, and began motioning wildly. Tsar barely understood this, and Nightlight became more agitated, eventually taking his spear and ramming it into the ground. In a flash of light, a massive picture appeared in the ground: an armored man with wings and a sword. "No!" Tsar said, his eyes widening. "Not him! Why is he getting involved?!"


	3. Chapter 2: The Council of Giants

Far away from this chaos, a young spirit was resting in a meadow, his back against a lone oak tree that rustled in the wind. His red and green hair hung low over his eyes, shading his face from the warm spring day. If he were able, he'd simply say that it was perfect, a day to be remembered.

With a deep snort, Spring Equinox burst from his slumber. He shook the sleep from his mind in a desperate attempt to escape from his dreams. They were nothing but a shadow of a murmur of a memory, but it had been enough to rip Spring Equinox, the one on whom the phrase 'sleeping like a log' was first used, from his slumber.

Cracking his neck, he stood slowly, watching the nearby crick little trickle into the roaring Mississippi River, the forest alive with the calls of the wildlife. This was _his_ doing. It was spring now, a time of new beginnings, and he smiled at his work. "Beautiful," he whispered groggily.

The oak loomed tall, the massive shadow pointing to the east as the sun set. Spring hadn't meant to sleep that long; he had closed his eyes when the sun had risen, claiming that he only needed a few more hours of sleep, that he could finish his work later. He was, relative to the age of the Earth, only 19. What else did you expect from him?

Something changed then; the wind seemed to whistle happily, the grass standing at attention of an unseen force. Spring smiled, his teeth gleaming white, as the crick began to bubble and rise, solidifying into the shape of his mother, the legendary Mother Nature. Her green and brown hair was tied back in a thick circlet made of laurel leaves. Her dress was knitted from rose petals and maple leaves, her smile from pure snow.

With a deep curtsy, she smiled at her sun. "Dear Equinox, how are you faring on this fine day?"

Laughing, Spring ran up and hugged his mother, his green hooded sweatshirt almost blending in with her dress. "Enough with the formalities, Mom! It's spring in the twenty-first century! Relax a little."

"I apologize, son. There have been so many gatherings of the Fae of late that I forgot to whom I am speaking. How has the transition been going?" she said, genuinely curious in the way that only mothers could be.

Spring smiled and gestured to the beauty around him. "Better than ever! Despite the bad weather, everything is going according to schedule. The cherries seem to be growing well this year."

"Jack hasn't been giving you trouble?"

"No, mother," Spring said with a chuckle, leading her to the oak tree to sit. "He simply likes to play. No harm, no foul. His games have actually gotten much better as of late, though he has little time to play."

"It's a shame," Mother Nature said. "He has been such a wonderful aid to the Guardians that I am surprised they don't go easier on him."

Spring looked to the sky, the Aurora Borealis shining high above them in rainbow hues. He pointed to the celestial lightshow, both sets of emerald eyes staring astounded at the sight. "It is a shame, Mother, but in truth, they need to do all they can in this world. Even if Jack Frost is worked harder than the rest, it is not if the others do not make sacrifices."

The Green Mother nodded contemplatively, her eyes spelling out a plan. Spring had seen this look before and smiled defiantly. "What are you concocting mother?"

…

At the top of the world, the Mother-son pair pushed out through the wood roof of Nicholas St. North's workshop, leaving small traces of bark behind as they made the transition from wood back to skin. They snuck to the hatch through which the Man in the Moon spoke to the group, peering down at the scene below.

Elves and yetis were going about their business, the yetis working away at the toys for the coming Christmas while the elves simply danced around the workshop, putting things into outlets that shouldn't go there. Several of Toothiana's fairies flew around the workshop, amazed by the chaos and waiting for orders from the Guardian of memories herself. The large, rainbow feathered woman fluttered around the workshop, spouting off locations where the fairies needed to retrieve teeth from children, and by doing so, retrieve their memories.

E. Aster Bunnymund was simply adding to the chaos, his furry body taught as he yelled at North, his Australian accent thicker since he was angry. "What reason in the bloody world could prompt you to pull that switch when we have been through this investigation a thousand times before?! Especially when Easter was only a few bloody days ago, and I haven't had a chance to relax yet!"

"Calm down, Bunny!" North said, jolly as ever. "Man in Moon has something to discuss with us, is all. Soon, you will be home in rabbit hole, sleeping away the days until next Easter."

"Oh, so now this is a shot at Easter now, isn't it?! It takes me just as much bloody time to prepare for Easter than it does for you to prepare for Christmas!"

"Ah, yes, but it is still not Christmas."

Jack sighed from his perch from the rafters. He knew he should do something or say something, but it wouldn't matter; either way, Bunny would only get angrier and North would simply egg him on. Best to let the two hammer it out. At times, he wished he could be more like the Sandman, currently quietly relaxing in a swing made of his golden sand, his eyes closed in blissful sleep.

Nearby wings ruffled, and the final Guardian walked into the room, holding her heavy book in her hands. Katherine, the Guardian of Storytelling, was the only friend of the group whom Jack had not met until recently. She had been traveling the world with her giant goose, Kailash. Her warm, yellow coat seemed to give off light as she slammed the book on the nearby console, staring at the two bickering men. "I believe that is quite enough, gentlemen. The moon is here to speak to us."

The group looked up to the skylight, expecting to see the beam of light that signaled a MiM transmission, but no pillar of light came. In fact, the only thing that did come was the sound of metallic feet on the ground and a small, high pitched cough from behind them. North turned quickly, his red coat flying around him as he witnessed a small, pudgy man and his silver plated bodyguard.

Mother Nature's eyes widened and would have gasped loudly if it weren't for Spring's intervention. He patted the wooden roof, a large vine growing up and around his mother's mouth, keeping her from exposing them.

North squinted his eyes at the little man, unsure of what to think. "Did I leave another snowglobe around in my travels? How did this man get in here?"

The little man laughed as his guard bowed, gesturing grandly at the man. "North, my old friend, I don't believe that we have had the honor of actually meeting in person. I am Tsar Lunar, but you simply know me as Manny."

Tooth smiled wide and flew up to him, excited. She seemed to be the only one, as Bunny, North and Sandy stayed sitting where they were, their jaws hitting the floor in shock. "Manny! I can't believe we actually get to meet you! This is incredible! Oh! There are so many things I want to ask you."

She stopped rambling when Jack put his hand on her shoulder. She turned around, seeing his eyes, darkened with… something. Toothiana couldn't place the emotion, but knowing Jack's history with Manny, she didn't want to be standing between them.

Kneeling on one knee, Jack looked Lunar in the eyes. "For centuries, I searched for answers. For centuries, I asked why I was here. And you never answered, not once, until you finally had Peter Cottontail here and the yeti brigade kidnap me, throw me through a wormhole and then force me into becoming a Guardian. I have so many things that I have to say to you."

Tsar rubbed his head, his face burning from shame. "Well, in truth, the wormhole part was North's idea." Nick cocked his head at this. "What? It's tr-" He couldn't finish what he was saying, however, as Jack's blue clothed arms wrapped around the fat man in a firm hug.

"There are so many things I have to say to you, Manny. But they all lead to thank you."

Shocked, Tsar simply patted Jack on the neck, unsure of how to react. He then accepted the hug, smiling larger than he had ever smiled before. "You more than deserve it, young man. I chose you for a reason."

"Yes." A massive, harmonious voice echoed around the room, stopping all motion in the workshop. One elf fell over, its bell chiming loudly in the dead air. Light from the globe and from every other source in the room began to seep into the air above the Guardian symbol grafted onto the floor. The light swirled, taking on a humanoid shape, solidifying into a raven haired man dressed in armor made of white silver, vast crystalline wings spread out at his back. He looked at the awed faces of the Guardians around him, simple shocked fear dancing across each one's eyes.

"You did choose Jack for a reason, Tsar, as you chose all of the Guardians. I am here today to judge that decision."


	4. Chapter 3: Fall From Grace

Ch. 3: Fall from Grace

Tsar Lunar stepped toward the winged man, his eyes dancing everywhere but the new arrival. It wasn't fear as much as anticipation; there was never a case where the Guardian Angel got involved without major repercussions. "Michael, it is good to see you, my friend."

Michael glanced at the pudgy man. "Hello, Tsar Lunar, it has been quite some time." Even in this simple greeting, the man's voice boomed above all other sounds, calling attention to his position even if one wasn't in sight. "And to all of you," he gestured at the other Guardians, "I do not believe that we have had the honor of a proper introduction. I am Michael, the Guardian Angel."

Spring Equinox watched from the roof, his eyes widening to accommodate the sensory and psychological overload. This was Michael. This was the mysterious first guardian, the Guardian Angel. The Guardians and pure spirits like himself had heard rumors of this man's presence in the world, but that's all they ever turned out to be: rumors. Yet there he stood, several yards below Spring, his crystalline wings refracting the light seeping in from the opening.

"Sir Michael," North began, stepping toward the large man, "it is an honor, to be sure, but why have you called this meeting of the Guardians? Manny never leaves moon unless it is emergency, and there has never been emergency large enough yet to warrant that kind of action."

Bunny stepped forward, his body tense with awe, but his eyes narrowed to an angry glare. "Yeah. What bloody reason could you possibly have to show your face around here when you've been gone from this world for almost two millennia?"

Michael simply looked down at the furry warrior. "There is a much greater difference between being gone and watching from a distance, Rodent. I have been assigned to this post for more time than you have even been alive and as such have more experience and knowledge about this position than any of you." He looked at the others, the Guardians as a whole. Sandy no longer looked tired, and Tooth was simply fluttering above the ground, silent for the first time in quite a while. Nightlight remained kneeling, though he grasped his spear even tighter in preparation for what this creature would do, while Katherine sat beside the console, her pen frozen over the yellow parchment.

Jack Frost simply looked on. Gone were the joyful quips and fun-filled eyes; he stood there in awe of a creature that he had never before heard of, and who was now undermining everything they had done. Standing there by Tsar Lunar's side, he couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding, a sense that something bad was about to happen.

Turning, Michael gestured toward the globe. "All of those children, all of those pinpoints of innocence and humanity, they are our chief responsibility. In each of your given holidays, if you fail, a child simply isn't able to find a rotten egg in the bushes or a rusted quarter under their pillow. As Guardians, however," a massive broadsword appeared in a flash of light, hovering inches in front of his hand. With a flick of his wrist, the broadsword skewered the globe, ripping into the Pacific Northwest of America, "When you fail, children are threatened. Children can die, as was the case in Washington just last month."

Stepping forward, Jack threw his hands down, anger dancing across his face. He had had enough of being scolded like a child. "How can you blame us for that? It was tragic, but we looked into it! There was no sign of anything that would suggest that we needed to get involved further, no sign that anyone or anything threatened that girl."

"And what of the storms, the out of season hurricanes that are ripping apart countries? In-land states that rarely experience anything but the calmest of weather are being flooded. Mary Marshall has not been the only child affected. There is an explanation for this, one which you have failed to see, Jack Frost." His eyes flashed with an anger the likes of which Jack had never seen. It could only be described as despise. "My call is to stay out of conflicts unless the children of the world are unable to protect themselves. I see more of this Earth in an instant than you could possibly imagine, and children are afraid. They are afraid to sleep at night. They stare into the corners of their bedrooms, terrified of what they might find there. The light of innocence in these children is being ripped away, destroyed by some outside force." His fists clenched, shaking, knuckles white. "And none of you have done anything to fix it."

His voice never once rose in that entire exchange, never once showed any sign of anger, but the Guardians felt the words like a knife. It cut into their hearts and minds; their bodies trembled with guilt and despair. They stood there in silence. Even Jack, who had stood up for his friends, just returned to his spot by Tsar.

Mother Nature looked down from the skylight, a tear building at the edge of her eye. "Please, Michael," she whispered, almost inaudibly, "Please, don't do this."

"What do you mean, Mother? What is he going to do?" Spring asked.

His mother simply shook her head, unable to say anything. Spring looked on as Michael unfurled his wings and flew to recover his blade. He pulled it from the globe with little strain.

"You were given this post in order to protect six of the most important aspects of childhood, the six pieces that make up a child's innocence. Hope, Wonder, Memories, Dreams, Fun and Storytelling. Each is an essential portion of a child's life, but is meaningless unless a child loses these elements. The children still believe in you six, but they are losing their innocence. A child cannot live in fear."

Tsar spoke up then in defense of his chosen. "These beings have nothing but the best intentions for the children. They have been working day in and day out, trying to find the source of this distress, but there is nothing that we can do."

"Then they have failed as Guardians." With a massive swing of the golden blade, he cut through the silver plated Guardian symbol, destroying it. "From now on, the Guardians are no more. Go about your business. Gather teeth, bring the children toys, but you are no longer in charge of their safety. You are no longer to meet as a group nor act as a unit. You have no ties to each other anymore."

Tooth gasped out a sob, and Sandy dropped from his swing. Katherine stood, dropping her book and pen on the ground. "You cannot do that, Michael! You have no authority over us. Only Tsar can make that decision, as he is the one who gathered us together!"

Downcast eyes were the only response they received from the Man in the Moon. North went to him. "Manny, say something! Tell this man that he is wrong about us."

"My hands are tied, Nicholas."

"I shall be keeping a close eye on your affairs," Michael said, turning his back on the group. "I suggest that you do not take my words lightly. Heed my decree and leave this place." His wings rose into the air, swinging down hard in a large gust of wind. He shot up through the skylight, flying past the lookout post of Spring and Mother Nature, who only seconds before had sunk into the wood roof to return through the oak tree into the meadow yet again.

As they brushed the bark off of their skin, Spring looked at his mother, her eyes glistening with tears. "Mother, what does this mean?"

Her voice choked from the emotion, but she was able to say these words. "It means, my son, that the world has lost a great light."


	5. Chapter 4: Shadows of a Rose

Ch. 4: Shadows of a Rose

Nicholas St. North sat behind his expansive wooden desk, chipping away at another block of ice he was using for a new toy design. With little taps and sprays of ice, North was getting closer and closer to the final product that he so desired. He continued chiseling into the ice, gaining more and more confidence as he went, but as the project was nearly at its end, the hammer slipped from his hand, shattering the ice.

Throwing his tools down, North sat back in his chair, sighing. He ran his fingers through his pearly white beard; that had been the seventh sculpture that he shattered in the last three hours. It would not normally take him this long to finish a project, but his mind was elsewhere. The events from only a few hours before played over and over in his mind's eye; just as he had slipped into his realm of relaxation, the memory of Tsar's dark eyes or Toothiana sobbing in the corner would invade his skull.

After Michael had left, silence was the primary element in the workshop. Normally, it was a struggle to find anywhere that was quiet, but everyone, even the elves, were shocked at the disbanding of the Guardians. The only sound that could be heard clearly was Bunnymund grumbling as he left; he had started to spit curses at Michael after the Angel had left and continued as he hopped through the front door into one of his rabbit holes. Tsar just stood there, watching the scene unfold, whispering over and over how he was sorry, that he didn't mean for this to happen. Nightlight eventually grabbed him by the hand, and in a wave of his spear and flash of majestic white light, they were gone as well.

North remembered Sandy's face; the man had always carried a light in his eyes, a light that could only be described as belief. He believed in the Guardians, believed in their cause. The Sandman had even died for it once, and without words, without any wistful images made of sand, North could see that the most loyal of the Guardians was broken. The small golden man floated over to North and after a brief hug with the massive tattooed man, flew away in a plane that he crafted from sand.

For the first time that any of them could remember, Katherine was angry, her face red and her knuckles white. She grasped her massive book, the one in which all of the Guardian's adventures had been written, and threw it off the balcony into the shadows of the workshop. She had stated that their story was no longer needed as they no longer were. In a few short moments, they heard the flapping of very large wings and goose call as Kailash and Katherine left the home of Nicholas St. North.

Toothiana and Jack weren't ready to leave at that time, and North was willing to accommodate them. They may no longer be allies, but they were friends. He left them sitting on the floor of the globe room, Tooth crying into Jack's shoulder as Jack's dead eyes looked at the lit globe, a new pit of darkness visible among the stars of innocence.

In hindsight, North probably should have realized that Jack had been hit the hardest. He was a spirit of fun, to be sure, but he was little more than that. He had no holiday; after winter was over, he had nothing to prepare for. He simply existed in those off seasons. Being a Guardian had given him purpose, a reason to fight back against the darkness and for the children of the world. He enjoyed it, took such pride in it. It was his new passion, and now, that had been stripped away from him.

In a loud torrent, North began throwing tools and papers and whatever else he could find around the room, screaming at the top of his lungs as the flutter and clatter of chaos washed over him. For the first time, he wasn't willing to be jolly; for the first time, he didn't need to be strong and resolute, willing to take whatever came his way with nothing more than a laugh. He could not bury it any longer, and it flooded out of him in a rush of lost emotion, the storm only ceasing after he flipped his desk onto its side, scattering ice everywhere. He stood there, panting in the mess, not wanting to speak or move in fear that he too would break down in desperation.

…

Rain pattered all around the young man as he walked the streets of Aberdeen, Washington; his red dress shirt had been soaked to scarlet and his hair was falling into his eyes. Despite these inconveniences, Rosen Dane enjoyed the rain. The soft whisper of the wind through the millions upon millions of rain drops seemed to calm him, especially on nights like tonight.

Rose approached the street to which he had been pulled. Despite the month of rain and tears, miniscule traces of blood could be seen hiding in the cracks of the street. Little Mary Marshall had run away from home just two nights prior to her accident; it didn't even take two minutes for her breath out her last. Rosen didn't need to have watched the news to know any of this. His mind simply told him everything that he needed to know about the girl, as if some higher power was pushing him onto the track of his destiny.

A small tear mixed with the rain as Rose examined the sight of the crash. Though he was countries away from the accident, the blood and metal shards that dusted the roads surface told enough of the tragic tale.

The air always tasted different after the death of a child. Rosen couldn't explain it, but it was almost as if a small drop of happiness, of humanity, had somehow slipped from the world. Like extracting honey from a bee hive, all that remains is a cold, barren shell.

His scarlet colored eyes flitted to the nearest alleyway where a memorial had been erected for the little girl. Approaching the small cross buried in the dirt, Rosen stared at the picture that was stapled to cross of a young girl with braces and the biggest smile; brown hair that fell in a curling heap to her lower back; and silver-blue eyes that danced with life and love. It was a beautiful yet devastating sight. Mary Marshall had been happy once yet someone had ripped that happiness from her and her family.

A small sob could be heard nearby. Turning, Rosen saw a small black shoe retreat behind a trash can. Rosen approached the girl carefully, scared that he would frighten her even more. "Are you Ms. Marshall?" Rosen asked, his voice quiet and caring, as he sat down in front of her, crossing his legs despite the restriction of his jeans.

The silver of the little girl's eyes were distorted, tears blocking out the intensity of those colors. She looked at him with those eyes full of sadness, her lips quivering with fear and despair, and she nodded. Rosen barely registered the reaction, but smiled despite himself.

"Well hello, Ms. Marshall. My name is Rosen, but you can call me Rose."

"L-l-l-like the flower?" She stammered out, still shaking from the cold and wet. She may have been a walking spirit, but she could still suffer from the elements.

Rosen laughed at her comparison. "Yes, like the flower. Do you like roses, Mary?" She nodded slowly, looking into Rosen's eyes with a confused stare. "Then hold out your hand. I'm going to show you a magic trick, Ms." She held out her little hand, the hand of a six year old that refused to get older despite the passage of time. Rosen smiled at her and placed both of his hands above hers, waving them lightly as the space between their hands began glowing in a long, warm red light, which was quickly replaced by a long, thornless rose. The girl's eyes sparkled at the show, a smiling finally creeping across her face.

"Wow! How did you do that?" she asked amazed.

Rosen looked at her slyly, his hands held in the air in a look of total innocence. "A good magician never reveals his secrets. Besides, you wouldn't believe me anyway. Say, do you want to go for a walk?" After she nodded enthusiastically, Rosen stood while helping the girl to her feet. Rose never quite understood why children simply seemed to trust him, but he never had trouble befriending a child's spirit.

They walked away from the memorial so as to not make her scared. Oftentimes, child spirits do not understand the concept of death; as such, exposing these children to signs of their own deaths is an easy way to scare and confuse the children. "So, Ms. Marshall, why were you hiding behind those trash bins? A little girl like you shouldn't be sitting out in the rain like that."

"But you were sitting in the rain."

Rosen laughed. "Good point, but I'm not a little girl, now am I?" They turned the corner onto the main street, following the sidewalk closely. She seemed scared to even walk near the edge of the concrete, though Rosen was sure that she wouldn't be able to tell him why.

"I-I was hiding from all of the people who came to look at my picture. I tried to say hello and ask why they were said but they never seemed to see me. I don't know why they were looking at my picture for so long."

Rosen felt that she wasn't telling him everything. "Is there any other reason why you were hiding? You ran away when I came, even though I could see you."

Mary didn't speak for a while, staring at the cracks in the sidewalk. Their steps caused the water to splash around them as they passed several large driveways. Rosen knew where they were going, but didn't want to veer her from the path she was leading him down. "I thought you might have been one of the shadow people."

"What do you mean shadow people, Mary?" Rosen asked. Never before had he heard a claim like that, never before had he heard such fear in a child's voice.

"They chased me. They were really tall, taller than you even. I couldn't see their faces, but I could hear their voices. At first, I thought they were nice. They would play with me and would tell me stories and nursery rhymes, but then they got mean. They started to come home with me, and they would trip me while I was carrying the dishes or hurt me." She had begun crying again. "They weren't very fun anymore…"

"They chased you away from home, didn't they, Mary?"

She nodded and buried her face in his side.

"Don't worry, Ms. With me here, no mean shadow will ever hurt you again." Rosen smiled down at her as she stopped suddenly in front of a low set, green house. 13255 Pembrook Lane. "Where are we, Mary?"

Mary Marshall laughed. "This is my house, silly. Hey!" she shouted pointing to the upstairs window. A woman was sitting on a bed, her face hidden in shadow, her body shaking. A man sat behind her, hugging her. "What are Mom and Dad doing in my room? I told them it was off limits!"

Rosen kneeled down in front of her. He hated this part, but he knew that her closure had come. She was able to see her family one last time. Now felt like the right time to tell her the truth. "Mary, do you remember anything about the night before they put your picture in the alley there?"

Her facial features darkened visibly, but she shook her head.

"I don't want you to lie to me, Mary. It isn't nice to lie to friends, is it?" Rosen doubted that she was lying, though her mind wasn't allowing her to remember anything. He couldn't blame her; it would be hard to accept the fact that you were no longer alive, especially at this age.

Mary looked into his eyes but shook her head. "I don't remember much. Mommy and Daddy were mad at me for breaking the dishes. I tried to tell them it was the shadow people, but they didn't believe me! So I ran away. I think I scared them really badly. I kept running and then I tripped. That's all I remember."

Rosen closed his eyes, not wanting her to see his sadness. "Mary, when you tripped, you got really hurt."

"Did I go to the hospital?" She asked.

"No, Mary, you didn't go to the hospital. Mary, when little girls get really, really hurt, they have this part of them that walks away from the owies and gets to stay behind and be happy."

"Like the soul?" Mary asked.

"Exactly. You are one smart girl."

Mary looked like she was thinking through something. "So does that mean that I died? Like my grandma? Is that why my mommy and daddy are so sad?"

"I'm sorry, Mary, but that is why they are so sad. You were a very special girl, I can see that." Rosen was having a difficult time holding back the tears, but he didn't want to scare the girl. "But there is some good news, Ms. Marshall. There is a wonderful place that you get to go, a place where you'll get to see your grandma again and play with lots of other kids and do whatever you want! And someday, your parents will get to join you there, and you will be able to play with them there, too."

"Are you talking about heaven?"

"Something like that. I'm not sure exactly. I think so. From the little bit I've seen of it though, it is beautiful."

"Will mommy and daddy be sad if I go?"

"Your mommy and daddy will always be sad, but when you're over there waiting for them, their hearts will know, and they won't be as sad as they are now." Rosen smiled at the girl who was still holding the scarlet rose. "And as long as you have that rose, there is nothing that you or they have to be afraid of."

With a wave of his hand, a large, rose covered door slowly appeared in front of them. The doors slid open to reveal a blinding white light. Mary looked inside, her face breaking into a massive grin. "Grandma!" She shouted, total bliss crossing her features. "You were right, Rose, it is beautiful." She turned to him with a questioning look. "Will my parents be ok?"

"I'll make sure of it," Rosen said with complete honesty.

Mary smiled, hugging the man in red. Rosen hugged her back, smiling. She pulled away, running into the light within the door. The doors began to close behind her, and when there was only a crack left to see through, he could almost see Mary hugging an elderly woman, both filled with glee.

Rosen turned back to the house, looking into the window to the little girl's room. The parents had fallen asleep in each other's arms, smiling for the first time in almost a month.


	6. Chapter 5: Irish Melodies

Chapter 5: Irish Melodies

For hours, Spring Equinox sat consoling his mother, holding her in his arms as she sobbed. He had never seen her like this, so affected by the hardships of the outside world. She always stood resolute in the face of disaster; like the plants that she called into life every year, she refused to give up, but her spirit had been broken.

When she finally found the strength to stand, she stared down at her son, her eyes red from the strain. "I-I need to talk to your father, Spring. Chronaldis will know what to do. He always does." Spring nodded, standing to come with her, but she pushed him back into the grass. "Spring, this is something that must be done. There may very well be a time for counsel among the Seasons, but now is not that time."

"Mother! Why must you always remove me from these situations?! I am just as much a part of this as you and father are! It affects me as well!"

Mother Nature looked calmly at her son, smiling at his concern. "Spring, you are my son, meaning that I trust you more than I trust any of my Fae armies, but there is a time and place for trust and a time and place for decisions." She laughed despite herself. "And we both know that making decisions is not your strong suit, my dear."

Face reddening, Spring turned his face away from his mother. "Fine," he said, running his hand through his long hair, "but you will return to me and tell me what you two discussed."

Nodding, Mother Nature bent and hugged her son, her long, dark hair falling into his face. "I shall, my son. You will be informed as soon as I am able."

Spring returned the hug, closing his eyes as he realized that he would not be seeing her for quite some time. Standing, Mother Nature returned to the creek, submerging herself into the cold water, her dress becoming soaked from the exposure. With a small wave, she sunk down into the depths, off to visit Father Time.

…

In a country far from this parting, two old friends had gathered around a small wooden table, laughing and talking excitedly over a pair of drinks. The amber liquid had depleted quite a bit since their arrival in the small shack, but it didn't matter.

"There's always more in the back, sittin' and resting for the next brew," said the shorter of the two men. He was short by most people's perspective, barely able to see over the table without help on a good day. His belly plopped over his belt and his bottom shirt button had burst from the strain. His small green coat and hat sat nearby, out of the way of the festivities. He gulped down another swig of the brandy, smiling and laughing as the froth got caught in his bright red beard.

The other man laughed, slamming the table with his fist. "Bloody right, there is, lad! Can't go very far in Ireland without finding a barrel in the back and a pint in the hand!" His lean form was strong, built with strong muscles that had been stretched to their limit in the man's prime, having grown to a height of over six feet by age six. "I can't believe it, Lester. 300 years since we saw each other last! Blast it if that weren't too long!"

"Ah, Patrick, by all the stars in heaven, you haven't aged a day!" Lester laughed, his girth shaking the thin legged chair he sat on.

Patrick smiled, scratching at his shaved head. "I can't say the same for you, ya' bloody leprechaun! You look like you're getting near a thousand! By Mary, I think I see a bit a' silver creepin' into your mane!"

"Ah! What do you know, you strapper? I'm in the prime of me life here, happy and healthy." Lester belched loudly, patting his large belly.

"Well," Patrick pointed out, "you're at least happy!"

They both fell into silence for a second, than burst out laughing, slapping their knees and the table. Patrick leaned back in his chair, and before he knew what had happened, he was on the wooden floor. This only caused Lester to laugh hard, his sides cramping from the joyous noise.

Eventually, after a few minutes more of laughing, the two settled down, facing each other across the oaken table. Lester looked at his friend than at the ceiling, listening to the rain fall outside and the wind call their names. "It really is good to see you, Patty. It has been far too long since I had this much fun."

Patrick nodded, resting his head on the table, a headache already setting in. "I agree, Les, far too long. I just wish that we could have been meeting on a more joyous occasion. What with losin' the Guardians and all."

"Right shame that one," Lester said, shaking his head, "Couldn't have happened at worse time either, what with all of the trouble in the world."

Patrick felt his body stiffen. Something dark had cropped up recently, something that had caught even his attention. "So you've been feeling it too, I imagine."

"Yeah, I have, boyo. The floodgates are openin', and all manner of darkness are rushing out. It's only a matter of time before we two spirits are forced to face the harsh reality that maybe the darkness has won."

"Far from it, ye' bloody imp. This whole situation will iron itself out. The six will return again. That lot wouldn't let a single child get hurt if they could help it."

Lester turned his gaze to Patrick, staring into the man's eyes. "We are dealing with Michael, _the _Guardian Angel. He is older than the two of us put together! His word is law!"

Patrick shook his head. "No word is law, Lester. You of all people should know that. And we've seen some pretty horrid laws in our time."

The table shook with tremendous force as the tiny man slammed his arms across it. "All I'm sayin', lad, is that there is no pot of gold at the end of this rainbow."

Standing, Patrick turned to gather his coat from the hook near the door. "That's where you're wrong, Lester. You may be the luckiest creature to walk this earth, but I believe in these humans. They are stronger than you give them credit. Remember, I used to be one of them."

"Patrick, where are ya' goin'? Don't ya' wanna play a game of checkers with your old friend?"

"Ya' know I do, Lester, but I have some things that need to be taken care of soon. Thank you for your hospitality, brother. It has been good seein' ya."

"Aye, may the road rise to meet you and all that." Patrick waved at his friend, entering the downpour that had been plaguing the small coastal communities for months.

"Oy, Ireland. I missed you, lass!" The slopes were muddy, and the wind was cold, but Patrick Holloway had a smile on his face as he approached the small seaside village of Doolin. Silence danced in the streets, and a fire graced the hearth of every home. Families were snuggled together, reading to each other in the candle light. "Now, that's family togetherness. Better than those blasted Movie boxes they're always watching," he whispered, thankful for the loss of power.

Somewhere off in the distance, a sound played through the pouring rain, the whistling wind and the cracks of thunder: the quiet, forgotten sobs of a weeping woman. Patrick rounded the corner of the nearest bar, chattering and laughing being heard from within. Glancing through the alleyways, Patrick came across the source of the tears.

A beautiful woman was hunched over in the mud, makeup washing down her face in streaks. Her white dress had been torn, and her thin arms looked bruised. She was truly a tragic sight, her eyes swollen and puffy from the tears. Patrick approached her, kneeling beside her and placing his hand on her shoulder.

"I hate to see an innocent woman suffer like this, but there's little that I can do for ye', lass."

Between sobs, Patrick could hear her whisper something, but she said it so quietly that he could barely make out what she said. He did, however, have the feeling it was directed at him. "Could ye' repeat that, ma'am? Maybe a little louder."

"I said," she cried, "I am far from innocent!" She stood quicker than he could react and slashed at him with her nails, sharpened to the point of talons.


	7. Chapter 6: The Tormented Battle

Chapter 6: Forgotten Pain

The woman sobbed as she cut through Patrick Holloway's cheek, the blood from the wound dripping down onto his neck and soaking into his shirt. Patrick hopped away, twisting his body to dodge another attack from her claws. 'She's faster than she looks!' Patrick said, barely blocking a swing from his right. She had a look of desperation in her eyes, as if defeating him was the only way to ensure her continued existence.

Patrick leapt backwards, landing lightly on the rooftops of the village. The rain continued to wet the wood, removing any useful traction, but it didn't matter. She simply looked up at him, weeping. It was difficult to watch, to be sure; the sadness in the woman's eyes and the shaking of her thin frame seemed to channel itself into Patrick as he stood there, his knees getting weak and his throat clenching up.

He shook his head, attempting to rid himself of these thoughts. He had heard of this woman, the Banshee, La Llorana. She had recently besieged a nearby town, infecting it with despair. Despite the shining sun, the village was dark, the emotions of the people clouding over the brilliant light. The children were struck the worst, several of whom refused to get out of bed.

After all that she had done, Patrick vowed to stop her.

Green light enveloped his body, receding to reveal massive, silver plated armor; a large stone sword was strapped at his lower back, his hand resting lightly on the hilt shaped like a Cross of St. Patrick. Holloway smiled down at the woman. "Yer tricks won't work on me, Banshee. Ya' picked the wrong fight here, lass. I'm a Sword-Saint after all."

Her head lowered, she stumbled toward the shack. "I know exactly who you are, Patrick Holloway." Her hands raised to the heavens, taking in the rain with the first smile that she had shown since their meeting. "You are Shamrock, Sword-Saint of the Green Isle, teacher of St. Patrick's creed. I have been searching for you." Despite the gruff state of her voice, she spoke in a light Irish accent, syllables leaking out of her lips quickly but coherently.

"Sorry, lass," he smirked, "I can't say I'm too happy to make your acquaintance. I don't take well to people of any kind attackin' me." He removed his sword and knelt down, on the roof, prepared for any move she decided to make.

"I don't just plan on attacking you, Patrick. You see, you stand in my master's way. That is a crime punishable by death."

Laughing, Patrick blinked the rain water from his eyes; opening them, he saw that the woman had disappeared. He looked around quickly, standing with his sword at the ready, until a small bubbling noise behind him woke him from his trance. The woman rose from the roof in the form of water, solidifying into the white swathed banshee after a few seconds. Patrick stood defensively; despite his training, despite his thousands of years of experience, he could not bring himself to attack this woman. The look in her eyes… She had obviously been broken, building on the pain for centuries.

The banshee leaped forward, her claws attempting to rip out his eyes, but Patrick dodged this attack, sliding around her and readying himself again. "You'll have to do better'an that to beat me. Your claws aren't sharp enough."

"You're right," she said, tears streaming into her dress. "I cannot do anything, protect anyone! I am alone here, unable to even help my master." She cocked her head at the man in front of her, her hair falling in clumps around her. "My, you made me cry again. What would your late wife have to say about that?"

Patrick felt the force of these words, wishing that she had ripped him apart with her bare hands than stab that shadowy blade into his heart. "How in bloody hell do you know anything about my wife?!" He screamed, rushing forward and grabbing her by the shoulder, his blade pressed lightly to her throat. A small drop of black blood dripped onto the edge.

"I know because you know, Patrick. When I scratched you earlier, when you and I had physical contact, I learned about all of your pain, all of your suffering." Her head continued to fall to the sides as if she no longer had the strength to hold it up. "Today would have been your anniversary, wouldn't it have?"

Patrick got into her face, his emerald eyes staring into the bleak darkness of hers. He had never seen orbs of such pure darkness, of such pure despair. "You don't talk about her, Banshee! Never again or your body will fall limp at my hands!"

"Did-did I strike a nerve?" the woman asked innocently. "I'm sorry! I had no idea that it would hurt you!"

"Like I can possibly believe that, you bloody monster. I ought to…" he couldn't finish his sentence, a strange crawling sensation touching his leg, distracting him from his assault. 1He looked down to see a tendril of water crawling its way up his calf, several others joining it. They wrapped him in a shell of liquid, trapping his arms and legs, inhibiting him like rope. Patrick tried to fight the tentacles, but they were strong, forcing him to drop his blade.

The water continued to gather, churning around all but his head in a massive bubble. The churning grew faster and faster as the woman continued to cry, but realizing this did nothing for Patrick. His blade lay on the ground between them, and his body refused to move in retaliation.

"You look distressed, Shamrock," she said between sobs. "I am so, so sorry. I didn't mean for any of this to happen!"

With one final sob, the water spun into a total cocoon, covering the Sword-Saint's head as he let loose one last scream. The sobbing picture of the Woman in White and a far-off, pudgy man were all that he could see through the refracted window in front of him.

…

"Oy, I cannot believe that Patrick just left!" Lester said, his short legs landing lightly above the wood floor of his shack. He floated toward his stove, watching the rain splash against his window. Patrick could be seen walking through the village, turning around the corner of the tavern.

Lester shook his head. "What a sad day for the lad… Never has been easy for him. Poor man cannot forget Ava. Brilliant woman…" A crack of thunder rang out over the rolling hills of the plains, the rain intensifying as a flash of lightning lit the city. Suddenly, Patrick could be seen leaping onto a nearby building, standing there as his armor wrapped around him and his blade was drawn. "By Mary and Joseph!"

Lester spun around, running to grab his jacket and bowler cap. He flew through the door, gripping his walking stick in his thick fingers. The downpour slowed him down, but his friend was in danger, threatened by a woman dressed in white.

"Not her," Lester panted, flying low to the ground. "Please, holy mother, the boy can't fight off that woman!"

Suddenly, before his eyes, the young man was surrounded by a bubble of water, a prison meant to ensnare and drown its prey in a well of their own tears, their own despair. Little did the boy know that he himself was feeding that attack.

With a light hop, the Leprechaun jumped over the buildings, floating upside down over the woman's head. "Strange to see a pretty lass like yourself standing around such an incriminating scene at this time of night."

The Woman in White jumped, looking around to see the source of the voice. Her eyes narrowed in a growl as she yelled at the man. "Leprechaun."

"That's what they decided to call me so long ago, Llorana. Now, I've always been confused as to how an Irish maiden like yourself received a Spanish name. Any way of telling me why that is?"

Without responding, she screamed, a bolt of lightning striking where the Leprechaun was; disappearing in a rainbow colored flash, the man dressed in the colors of the earth reappeared nearby, taunting her by sticking his tongue out. "I think you missed, lass. Not your strongest show of force!"

He laughed as she continued screaming, lightning striking down wherever he appeared in space. Panting, she fell to her knees, unable to keep up the onslaught. Her eyes were dry, the tears having run dry. The rain began to lighten a little, the wind's howling lowering to simple white noise

"Ah, a bit of sad show there, if I do say so meself," Leprechaun said, reaching into his coat and removing three bright glints of gold. "Llorana, you and I have history together. I've tried to help ya', but ye continue to scorn my offers. Now ya' attack me friend. That is something that cannot be forgiven."

"So!" she shouted, her voice raspy and choked, raw from centuries of sobbing, "You'll not do anythin' to hurt me, Leprechaun! You haven't been able to since our first meeting."

Nodding in silence, the little green man threw the three gold coins at the woman, the metal reflecting the light from the moon as the clouds parted. They landed in front of the woman, her kneeling form shaking with silent sobs. She shook her head as the coins began glowing in a warm, golden light.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, becoming lost in the glow. When the light returned into the coins, the woman was no more, teleported to another place. The bubble that imprisoned Patrick ruptured, water rushing over the thin shingles of the roof. He fell than, slamming into the wood, the only thing stopping the descent to the cold, muddy ground below being a small, fat hand with a four-leaf clover ring on his middle finger.


	8. Chapter 7: Father Time

Ch. 7: Father Time

A white wood mansion home sat idly by, the Irish rainfall all but forgotten at the summit of Mt. Everest; not much was remembered there, except for the important details. What wasn't remembered was recorded in thousands upon millions of wooden cabinets, each built into a large clock. From miles away, it was possible to hear the ticking of the clocks, the ringing of the bells, but people were often too busy to spend time listening to such things.

Chronaldis Merritime sat in his thick, cushioned sofa, scribbling notes into a large journal quickly, the quill scratching across the paper at speeds faster than any human could see. This was needed after all; one doesn't record all of human history as it happens without learning to write fast.

Chronaldis… In truth, he hated his name, thrust upon him by no one but himself. He was one of the oldest spirits, his face wrinkled but strong, meaning that he had always had a name. Over the years, however, the humans had given him a new name, one that he had taken to quite fondly.

Father Time.

Now, he was not the creator or even manager of time; time had always been, an element that made up the world. Rather, he was in charge of tracking time, ensuring that nothing fell out of place in the world.

A knock on the door broke him free of his thoughts. He sighed, his pen stopping. He knew that somewhere in the mansion, a Scriber machine had jumped into life, scribbling down notes for the sector that Chronaldis had been covering. "Come in," he called, smiling as he stroked the stubble on his chin.

Slowly, the door opened to show a gaunt, humanoid figure standing in the crack of the doorway. The clockwork animatron was like a brother to Chronaldis, even if Grandfather Clock didn't always get his jokes.

"Aldis," Clock said, his face ever smiling, "you have a visitor."

Chronaldis stretched, his back cracking as he stood and straightened his pressed, grey suit. "Ah, I see. I thought maybe you had come in for a personal call, old friend."

"Maybe another time, Aldis. I assumed you would want to attend to this guest promptly," Clock said, bowing slightly.

"Well," Time said, his eyes dropping quizzically, "who is it then?"

Clock stepped aside, a beautiful woman dressed in green striding into the room. With a smile, she crossed to the older man, hugging him tightly.

"Your wife, Aldis," Mother Nature said, smiling up at her husband.

Father Time kissed the woman on the forward, smiling down at her. "Oh, how it is good to see you, my love!"

"As it is to see you, Aldis."

"Why have you come? Not that it is not a joy to have you here, but you are so busy with the seasons that I assumed you wouldn't be back until winter!"

Mother Nature's eyes darkened. "I think it is best to talk in private, my love."

"Ah, I see," Father Time said. "Let us go to the garden than! We shall be able to relax and speak with leisure!"

"As you wish," Mother Nature said, smiling despite herself. She truly loved this man, her only true companion in the millennia since this world's birth. She took his hand, far smaller than his callused palms. She led him through the hallways of her youth, pulling them both through memories. Despite the tragedies of the world, despite the pain, the suffering and the coming darkness, they could be happy here.

Opening a large wooden door, Mother Nature led the man into a room, closing the door behind them. The air there was so pristine, so fresh, the scent of lilacs and tiger lilies defused throughout. Walking slowly on the cobblestone paths, Mother Nature laid her head on her husband's shoulder. For this one, brief instant, she would let herself be happy.

They made their rounds of Eden, Mother Nature seeking her words carefully. She knew that Father Time would know about the disbanding of the Guardians; he always seemed to know things. Whether he had seen it himself or had simply inferred it from what had already happened, he seemed to be three steps ahead of where anyone could possibly be.

While they walked, Father Time told her about several of the major events that had happened in the world, though what he believed to be major could simply have been considered trivial. In his mind, a major event was one that greatly shifted the course of destiny, of the direction the world was taking. This broad range of events could fall anywhere between Nuclear war to a pen being dropped in the street.

"And so this little child smiled at this older woman, a hugely bright smile, missing several of his teeth, and she looked at him, thinking she should call her grandchildren, and-" Mother Nature held her fingers to his lips, quieting him calmly.

"Did you hear about what happened to the Guardians, Aldis?"

Aldis looked at her, lost in thought, his eyebrows lowering over his grey eyes. "I can't say that I have, but one of the Scribers probably caught it. We could go check and…" A solitary tear crept its way down Mother Nature's cheek. "My love, why are you crying?"

Her arms wrapped around her husband in a strong hug, one of desperation and sadness. He wrapped his arms around her, his eyes closing as he held onto her, trying to strengthen her with his presence.

They stood like that for hours, intertwined in each other's arms, Mother Nature crying into his chest. "The Guardians are gone," She said between hiccups. "Michael disbanded them."

"He did what!" Aldis said, surprised. Mother Nature looked into his eyes shining with shock, wondering at how she had never seen that look from him before. "I never- I couldn't- I can't believe that he would have done that!" He shouted, his body tensing from the mental overload. He held his wife tighter.

"I'm scared, Aldis."

"As am I, my love."

"What are we going to do? There has to be something!" She sobbed, her hands clenching into fists in his suit coat.

Father Time stood there for a long time, thinking. In truth, his perception of a long time was simply a few seconds, his mind working through probabilities and plans at an incredible rate. He knew there was a plan, knew that something had to be done, but what and where? "We should beseech Michael!"

"That will not work. He was very set on his decision."

"Then we find a way to unset him!" he said, looking into her eyes.

"I love you, Chronaldis, but Michael doesn't think like I do, and he definitely does not think like you do," she said, shaking her head, "When he makes a decision of this magnitude, he sticks to it, as long as it in some way is best for the children."

"But how can disbanding the Guardians be considered best for them?!" he yelled, his mind working faster than his mouth. "Their only concern is the children and will only ever be the children!"

"A child died, Aldis."

Aldis sat down on a nearby bench, his legs shaking as he broke the hug. Mother Nature had seen him this way before, his mind working at the same time as his heart, the two not meshing in their opinions. "I understand that a child died, Abilene. Her name was Mary Marshall, aged eight years, ten months, 12 days, 13 hours and 2 minutes. I could go into the seconds and lower if you wanted, but they mean little in this situation."

Mother Nature sat next to him, grasping his strong hand. "What are we to do, Aldis? Are we supposed to sit back and watch as the storm rips apart the world?"

"In some cases, that is all we can do. You and I have been a part of this world for a very long time, seen many things that we didn't believe we should, but we don't have the strength to aid in this battle, not yet. We can only watch, providing what aid we can."

Mother Nature looked out the windows at the white mountains around them. "I'm just afraid that we won't be able to."


	9. Chapter 8: Haunted Memories

Ch. 8: Haunted Memories

_ What he remembered most were the sounds: the hissing of flames; the gallop of hooves on hard ground; the scratch of unsheathed blades; the clang of sword striking sword; and the screams. _

_ The screams… They rang out everywhere, nearly tearing apart any echo of other noises. It wasn't even just women and children; it didn't matter who you were or where you had come from, everyone was screaming that day._

_ He remembered standing there, his blade leveled against the leader of a troop of marauders. They were so dead set on killing this one man, this supposed Sword-Saint, that they were willing to slaughter an entire village to find him. _

_ 'They're all innocent,' he tried to tell them, 'They don't deserve your wrath!'_

_ Armor clanked as the man laughed and laughed and laughed._

…

Patrick Holloway's emerald eyes shot open, burning from the spring sunlight seeping in through the window. Shielding his eyes, he sat up. "Where in blazes am I?" he mumbled, staring at the fireplace in front of him, boiling away at what smelled like potatoes.

"Where do ye' think ye are, lad?" a very familiar voice called out to him, hidden behind the wood-burning stove. Lester stood, looking at the wood pile with a bright smile, his bowler cap cockeyed across his forehead.

Patrick looked at him, a pounding in his brain the only reminder of his battle. "Oy, what happened to me, Lester? I feel like I got run over by a flock of sheep."

The little green man laughed, handing his friend a cup of tea. "Wouldn't be the first there, now would it? Remember old Hannigan's flock? Ye' riled 'em up for whatever reason, and-"

"Lester, quit second steppin' the point. What in bloody blazes happened?" Patrick eyed his friend cautiously, anger flashing briefly in his features.

Lester went to the pot, busying himself in his chores. He couldn't seem to look Patrick in the eye, to even give one brief glance his way. "Lad, the Banshee paid ye' a visit. A right short one at that. Don't ye' remember anythin'?"

"Hardly, old friend. Took quite a hit there, I did. Bloody witch took me by surprise, played on my weaknesses," Patrick said, his pride bleeding out in his features.

"More like played on your sadness," Lester said, quickly glancing at his friend. "She attacked on yer' anniversary, the day you and Ava were married those many moons ago. And the day of that trag-"

"Don't ye' mention that bloody day, you right bastard!" Patrick yelled across the room, ripping the blanket off the cot. "Don't ye' dare!"

Lester looked hard into his eyes. "This is exactly what I'm talkin' about, Shamrock! You are still tethered to that day! Llorana feeds on despair, seeks it out and plays it into her hunt! She would've killed you if I hadn't shown, she would!"

"I had her snookered, I did! Woulda beaten her down if ye' would've given me the chance."

"Nah, lad, you didn't. I'm not dismissin' your abilities, Shamrock, but the Banshee is far from a fair fighter. She has tricked many men into her web, cutting them down with their own sorrow."

Patrick looked away, his eyes watching the flames flicker. They called to him, echoing in the holds of his subconscious like a caged lion, batting away at the bars in an attempt to get free. Eyeing him wearily, his silver eyes sad, Lester sat on the bed next to his friend. He was almost half Patrick's height, but took up just as much of the bed as the other did.

"I had the dream again, Les," Patrick said quietly, staring into the flickering flames and the boiling water.

Lester patted the man on the back, leaning against the soft wooden wall of his shack. "I know ye' did, lad. I know ye' did."

…

"Spring! Your flowers are so pretty this year!" A little girl bounced in front of Spring Equinox, smiling while she danced. Her dress was hued in orange, red and yellow, her hair following much the same trend. A small but long wooden box was tied to her belt, a small golden leaf inscribed in the case's lid. Her eyes, the brown of a newly grown elm, shown with a light of innocence, of pure bliss.

Spring smiled at his sister, laughing as she tripped on a root. "You always say that, Autumn! Every year!"

"So! It's true!" She huffed, mad at him for laughing at her.

"Well," Spring said, standing and helping Autumnal Equinox to her feet, "they're not near as beautiful as the colors that you paint the trees in the fall." He swung her around in a circle, eliciting another round of giggling from his kid sister.

"You really think so!" she asked, her eyes beaming. She always seemed happy, always playful.

Spring smiled down at her, setting her down and sitting across from her. "Most definitely. In fact…" He pulled out a tiger lily, the petals grey and lifeless. "I almost forgot to have these beauties grow. Now, I know they're your favorite, so how about this year you paint the Tigers?"

Autumn's smile got bigger. "Really?!" She squealed, grabbing the flower from his hand. The box strapped to her belt opened of its own accord, a small paintbrush and several paint bottles flying into her small hands. "Ooh, what colors should they be?"

"How about… peach?" Spring said, hoping that she would paint them their normal, in season colors.

Autumn frowned, dropping most of the bottles on the ground. "Fine. You're so boring, Spring." Dabbing the paint brush in the bottle, she swiped it over the flower, smiling as the plant began to shine radiantly with the color she had instilled into it.

"Very beautiful, Autumn. Gardeners all over the world will have quite the spectacle to see this year, now won't they?" He picked his sister up and put her on his shoulders. They had decided to have a play day at the Season's meeting ground, a forest at the center of the world's "aura." Really, Spring didn't understand the concept, but it was the only place on the planet where all of the seasons and the transitions could meet without causing natural calamities. They had made the mistake before of having the group attend the centurial meeting of the spirits many millions of years before, but doing so caused the land mass to separate. Since that time, they simply had a representative attend the meetings alongside Mother Nature and Father Time.

"So did you really get to see Momma?" Autumn asked, her hands wrapped firmly around Spring's forehead.

"Yeah!" he said, the leaves of the forest green and lush around him, growing fuller and deeper in color as he passed. "She was so excited to see me. She really misses you, Autumn."

"Did she say that?"

"No, but you could see it in her eyes."

Autumn sighed. Spring could imagine the look in her eyes: downcast, dark, yet somehow understanding. "Momma's always so busy…"

"Yes, but she's in charge of all of the seasons! Just because she can't see you all the time, doesn't mean she doesn't still love you."

"I know," Autumn said, pulling on Spring's ears, "Where did she go?"

Spring looked down at the ground. "She went to go see dad."

"Daddy? Why couldn't she have taken me?! I haven't seen him in soooo long!" Spring felt wetness drip onto his head.

Spring looked up at her the best that he could. "Hey there's no crying when you see me, remember." He pinched her sides, tickling her.

She laughed and jerked from her perch. "But I'm not crying, Spring! It's starting to rain!"

Spring looked up, and sure enough, the sun had been blotted out by angry black storm clouds, the signal for a coming storm. "Oh man. Come on, Autumn. Looks like we're going to have to postpone our play date!" he yelled, tamping through the wet grass as best he could in order to reach the oak tree through which the entered the Cove.


	10. Chapter 9: Summer Storms

Ch. 9: Summer Storms

Spring and Autumnal Equinox ran through the downpour, the mud sloshing under their shoes, thunder cracking overhead. Such inclement weather was strange for The Cove, the meeting place kept in check by the Seasons' watchful eyes.

Spring could hear his sister crying from his shoulders, her perfect day with her big brother ruined. "It's all right, Autumn. We'll just reschedule for tomorrow! We have all the time in the world." He said this between breaths, his chest burning from the run. Normally he wouldn't be this strained, but carrying the extra weight of a young girl took its toll on the young spirit. By the time they reached the massive, pine portal, he felt ready to collapse; it felt as if his strength had been drained, a certain heat wrapping itself around his muscles and lungs. Despite the unusual air around the sensation, he recognized it.

In some senses, he dreaded it.

"I'm so sorry, Spring!" Autumn wept, tears rushing down her thin face. "I didn't mean for our play date to be ruined! I was so excited to see you!"

Spring picked her off of his shoulders, his jeans getting soaked by the mud as he kneeled down in front of the shining bark of Yggdrasil. "It's alright, Autumn. Remember, no tears when you see your favorite brother!" He hugged her tightly, feeling her small arms wrap around him. "Now, you go to your home and see your friends, the Color Fairies, alright?"

"But they don't know any fun games!" Autumn said, her voice choked.

Spring held her at arm's length, smiling at her. "Then teach them some fun games, and then tomorrow, at noon when we see each other, you get to teach me those same games."

Sniffling, Autumn smiled at her brother. "Ok."

"Do you promise?" Spring asked, making a funny face.

"Yes," Autumn laughed.

"Say the words!"

"I promise," Autumn said, kissing her big brother on the cheek. "Bye, Spring! You had better come tomorrow."

Spring smiled as his sister vanished in a flash of brilliant, warm light. "I never break a promise…" he whispered after her, his emerald eyes flashing to the forest around him. "Come on out, Summer!" he yelled, standing. His thin body was tight with anger, his fists stuffed into his sweatshirt's pockets.

A young woman appeared from between two bushes, her amber hair glistening in the light of the portal. She wore a black dress, the skirt puffing out around her knees in thin, frilly material. Under this, she wore black leggings, finishing the look with silver sandals adorning her orange painted toe-nails. "Hello, big brother. I'm so sorry about the weather."

"Well, I guess it's true what they say," Spring said, his eyes turning away from his sister.

She smirked at him, her yellow eyes staring dangerously at his hidden face. "What's that?"

"Summer rains, you can't predict them. I guess they're a lot like your emotions," he shot at her, stepping toward the Meeting Place, the only safe zone in the area. It was here that the aura was strongest, cancelling out their powers. All that was there was a long table and some stone carved chairs, but it was there that he knew he'd be safe.

Summer simply flicked her hand, a line of fire separating Spring from his escape route. "What would you know, brat?!"

Smiling at his sister, Spring simply waved his hands in a calming manner. "I'm sorry, Summer. That was rude, and I shouldn't have said it, especially to a little sister whom I love."

"Shut up, Spring!" She shouted over the din of thunder and the flash of lighting she created. "You don't understand the repercussions of your actions, do you? This is your time of year, Spring! You are in charge of bringing the plants back into life, making way for me, and yet what do you do?" Another blast of fire shot from her hand, circling around her brother, a light to his frightened features. "You spend your time with Mother and Autumn, far from your duties."

"Oh my God!" Spring said, his eyes widening in disbelief. "You're actually jealous!"

"I am not!"

"Are too!"

"Am not!" A crack of thunder rang out through the forest

"Just admit it, Summer Solstice! You are jealous of the fact that I got to see mom, that I got to spend some time with Autumn!"

"I am not!" She shouted, appearing beside him in a flash of fiery light. "Do you even grasp what's going on, Spring? Can you even feel the void left behind from the loss of the Guardians? The world is falling apart!"

Spring stepped back from his sister, looking into her eyes as she forced a dull, painful blade into his heart. "You say that like it's my fault!"

"Well, you are the oldest of the Transitions, aren't you? Aren't you the one who usually attends the Centurial with Mother and Father?" She said, her eyes flashing coldly as she continued her advance.

Spring simply continued stepping back, reaching the wall of fire and ceasing his retreat. "What's the matter with you, Summer?! I know you and I haven't been close for a few millennia, but I never thought it was this bad!"

"You are weak!" She shouted, a ball of fire dancing above her fingertips. "You don't deserve anything that you have!" Raising her hand, the ball of fire slammed at the ground in front of Spring's sneakers, the white flame burning through the grass quickly. Each blade cried out inside Spring's mind, each questioning why he did nothing for them.

"That's enough!" A cold voice, cold as a frozen wind, echoed through the valley. They winds picked up, blowing out the circle of flames. There, at the south entrance to the Cove, stood a tall man, his thin face nearly skeletal as he puffed on his cigarette. Despite the warmth of the flames, he wore a white winter jacket, fur lining the collar. A black t-shirt could His blond hair was nearly white, his eyes, much the same color.

"W-Winter…" Summer stammered, her yellow eyes fading to a light orange.

Winter Solstice looked at the pair, Summer's hand nearly at Spring's throat. "You two are defiling this holy ground for what reason exactly? A petty squabble?"

Stepping toward him, Spring looked over his oldest sibling. "Blame Summer, Winter. She threatened me, not the other way around!"

Winter glanced at Summer, the two siblings' eyes meeting over the great distance between them. "Leave," he whispered, never breaking eye contact. Without a word, Summer vanished in a blast of fire, smirking at Spring.

"Thanks, Winter."

He barely glanced at his younger brother, shaking his head. "Have you had a chance to see your friend Rosen lately?" He asked simply, disappearing in a flash of shattering ice, leaving Spring to his thoughts.

"Way to be overt, Winter!" Spring shouted after him, swearing that he could hear the echo of a laugh far off in the distance.


	11. Chapter 10: Thorn

Ch. 10: Thorn

Joints cracked as Rosen Dane stretched out over the park bench that he had recently been calling home. It wasn't much, he thought, but it was enough to get by for a while as he travelled through America. It was an incredible place to be sure, though it did lack the grandeur of some of the world's small villages. In these places, Rosen felt truly at home; even if the people couldn't see him or interact with him, it was comforting to have found a place where everybody looks out for everybody else, where a loss affects everybody.

The stars glinted down from above like a million happy observers. Rosen looked back at them, attempting to make out the constellations that he had learned long ago from his tutors. There were the Big and Little Dippers, the end of the prior pointing toward the shining eye of the North Star. Nearby, the half-moon smiled down at the scarlet-eyed young spirit, seeming to tell him that all was right with the world.

Despite the reassurance, Rosen Dane wouldn't be sleeping tonight.

Call it sadness. Call it anticipation. Call it what you will, but what mattered was that when Rosen Dane closed his eyes, sleep would not take its hold on him. He may have feared his nightmares, but they always danced at the edge of his mind, a constant reminder of past failures. They would not have wrenched sleep from him.

It felt like there were eyes on him, staring directly at his tired body, the red button up and black vest that he wore bundled up underneath him. This would not have been the first time he had had this feeling; one Crossing in Germany involved a small, timid child named Albrecht who refused to come out of the shadows unless Rosen was asleep, but this feeling proved to be different. Hairs stuck up on the back of his neck, his pupils dilated and his breathing quickened. Limbs tensed as he lay still, listening.

It was as if nature was telling him to prepare himself.

A soft rustle nearby, a movement nearly imperceptible to anyone that wasn't seeking it out. Without turning his head to look at the oncoming creature, Rosen followed the noise as it circled him, sniffing at the ground nearby. In a strange spiral, it ran around the bench quickly, approaching him, constantly sniffing, constantly seeking something out.

Finally, it stood right next to Rosen, sniffing him. It stayed there for quite a while, not noticing the rose bush that was slowly growing behind it. Rosen stared at the stars refusing to look at the creature.

He made his move when the creature leaped forward at the bench, jaws wide.

With an athleticism that was strange to him, he flipped himself backward onto his hands, pushing off the bench and then off the creature. He didn't get a good look at it as he fell, reaching into the rose bush and removing a slender, red-silver rapier, the tip angled dangerously at whatever had attacked Rosen. The handle of the blade was wrapped in red leather, the hilt highly decorated in a ruby encrusted tangle of rose petals. A bar at the center of the tangle screamed the blade's name with engraved silver: _Thorn._

With a twist and a lunge, Thorn's tip was pointed at the creature, it's big, black, happy eyes turned toward the young spirit, it's four legs and furry body jumping up onto the bench from which Rosen had just left. The Saint Bernard panted happily at him in the way that only dogs can; though cultures had worshipped cats for centuries for their deep connection to the spiritual realm, it was dogs that really were capable of sensing spirits and interacting with them.

Rosen sighed, lowering Thorn from the dog's face. Its fur was mottled black, brown and white, its massive muzzle dripping drool. "You just wanted some company tonight, didn't you big guy?"

Big Guy smiled and barked happily. Rosen expected to hear the jingle of metal from around the dog's neck, but there was no collar there, no subtle flattened fur signaling that one had ever been there. Sitting next to the animal, Rosen ran his hand through its thick fur. "Do you have a home, or are you all alone out here?" The dog exposed its belly to Rosen, who scratched at it happily. A deep gurgle came from the dog's throat, happy to be interacting with the spirit.

Eventually, the dog stood, licking the man's face. Despite the differences in size (the dog was far bigger than Rosen), the dog seemed to fit into his lap just perfectly. "Oh, you're a good dog, but I don't want to take you away from someone who really cares about you."

Tilting its head as if it were confused, Big Guy simply looked on as a small butterfly flew between the dog's eyes. In other words, the butterfly passed through the dog as if it weren't actually there. "Wow!" Rosen yelled, smiling. "I guess I just couldn't tell that you were a spirit of a dog. You had me fooled big time, Big Guy."

Suddenly, the dog's ears pricked up, and he looked around, sniffing at the air, a deep, throaty growl ringing from his throat. Rosen looked at him, unsure of what to do. "Are you ok? Is something wrong?"

With a series of deep barks, the massive Saint Bernard leaped off Rosen's lap, running to the edge of the small forest that bordered the park. Rosen jogged after it, trying to pick out what the dog was sensing. Over the barks, he could hear little else, and with the nighttime darkness, little could be seen through the shadowy veil.

A loud crack rang out over the din, Rosen's eyes shooting toward the eastern edge of the woods, his grip on Thorn tightening as he stalked toward the source. If it were simply a squirrel, Big Guy wouldn't be putting up as much of a fight as he was. It was almost as if he were scared of something, scared of whatever lay beyond the tree line.

Another crack, this one echoing from the west. A thin rustle from the south and two slithering noises from the north, surrounding Rosen in a web trap. Turning in a wide circle, Thorn raised in a fighting stance, Rosen inspected the area around him, but saw and heard nothing.

"Show yourselves!" he shouted, eyes rapidly scanning his surroundings. He could swear that he could catch glimpses of something moving just out of his range of vision. Whatever the creatures were, they were incredibly tall, standing nearly twice as tall as Rosen. They stalked him like a tiger stalks its prey, waiting, hoping, anticipating that moment when the prey makes a mistake.

Finally, one lost any semblance of its patience, shooting from its hiding place in the shadows of the trees. With a quick but heavy-handed swing of his sword, Rosen cut through the creature, gasping at the sight. There in front of him was a tall man made of shadow, his features composed completely of darkness. Its wound seemed to leak shadow, and in an instant, the creature exploded in a thick, black goop.

The others did not make the same mistake, pouncing as one, unified being, each sprouting a weapon of shadow from its body. The closest to Rosen slammed its shadow club against the ground next to the Rose Spirit, attempting to intimidate the young man.

It cost him his arm as it shattered, the wave of black goo rushing over Rosen as he spun to fight the others. One had gotten smart, forming a bow and arrow set from its body, but the other had taken to the belief that a simple shadow dagger would be more than enough to take on the one who had destroyed two of its comrades.

Charging, the daggered shadow slammed itself into its opponent, attempting to jab him with the dagger, but Rosen was smarter than that. Using the attack's momentum, Rosen continued to roll, using his feet to propel the monster at a nearby tree, leaping forward before it could make contact to deal the finishing blow as a black arrow whistled by his ear followed by a mysterious, darkly haunting scream. Turning, Rosen witnessed Big Guy leaping on the spirit, forcing it to the ground with his weight. With a strong, solid swipe of its paw, the dog dispatched the shadow, black ooze dripping from the tip of its brown leg.

Rosen panted, listening to his surroundings with a warrior's ear. He may not have had to fight for quite a while, but one never forgets their training. He inhaled deeply, hoping to catch a brief glimpse of any stragglers, but the night stayed calm, the moon continuing to look down on his battle.

Looking at it from this angle, Rosen could have sworn that the moon was frowning.

With a quick snap of his fingers, the rose strewn garden doors appeared behind the Rose Spirit. The doors swung open, depicting a small, ivy covered farmhouse, the snow melting from its eves. "Come on, Big Guy!" Rosen shouted, walking to the portal. "You are coming with me from now on."

Big Guy barked happily, shivering before padding over to Rosen as the doors slammed shut.


	12. Ch11: Quiet Solitude, Silent Perfection

Ch. 11: Quiet Solitude, Silent Perfection

A clump of snow splatted into the nearby ground as the two new friends passed through the rose strewn door into the courtyard of an ancient mansion home. In essence, it was graceful in its prime, and echoes of that near-perfect time still rang out over the vast countryside. Dirt crackled under shoe and paw as Rosen Dane and Big Guy clambered up the steep incline to the home's entrance. Of the mansion's walls, this was the only one not hidden in ivy, Rosen taking great pains to cut himself a pathway into the house that he adored.

In truth, he was simply happy to be somewhere safe. The house buzzed with its own silent pulse, a perception of sound caused by complete lack of sound. It wasn't like American homes in so many ways; no matter where one went in that country, they were bombarded by noise, their air polluted by curses and infernal racket.

Here, however, Rosen could fully relax.

Big Guy's tongue stuck out of its mouth as he panted, a happy glint shining in his eyes. Rosen smiled down at the dog. He wasn't sure why or how this massive creature found him, but it didn't matter. Maybe it was good for him to have some company once and a while, to enjoy companionship.

Eventually, Big Guy looked up at the tall man pleadingly, as if he were asking to go do something important.

"Well go on, then!" Rosen laughed, waving his hands in a shooing gesture. "This is your house now, too, Big Guy."

The Saint Bernard barked happily, padding off down the hallway leading from the foyer. Head swiveling, nose sniffing, Big Guy scoured the mansion, digging into every crack, doorway and empty space, trying to acquaint himself to its new home. It one room, it leaped up onto a massive bed, rolling around in the covers joyfully, the deep rumbling gurgle coming from its throat as if to say, "This is definitely my bed."

Rosen, on the other hand, walked slowly to the large kitchen. Slipping his shoes off before stepping onto the polished stone, he was reminded of the hundreds of times that he had done just that in his youth, his mother the cook for this amazing place. He slid around on his black socks, closing his eyes in remembrance of all those that had come through this palace of a common man.

Ending his light dance across from the large dining table, Rosen ripped back the white cloth guarding it from dust and decay. There were centuries of his work, centuries' worth of paintings and sketches of the places and people he had seen. He saw the art as a memorial, a means to remember those who had gone before him.

At the top of the pile stood the piece that he was most proud of, a beautiful charcoal sketch of a young woman wearing a thin, satiny dress, her light form pressed lightly against Rosen's garden doors. Her eyes shone deeply with her love back then, and a lump formed in his throat staring at the picture.

He moved the picture to the side, finding a solitary piece of parchment paper and the used charcoal from nearby. The charcoal scritched atop the paper, leaving thin but sure lines in its wake. Rosen stayed at his work for hours, sitting bent over the table as he made sure the scene was just right. A small flower here, a light smile there….

Eventually, Big Guy padded into the room, yawning and slobbering. His massive form approached the table, and as if he knew that Rosen needed silence, he didn't make a sound, simply laying his head lightly on the corner of the table and watching Rosen work.

It wasn't that much longer until Rosen decided that he couldn't go anywhere else with the picture, setting the charcoal to the side with a sigh. He never felt that his pieces were complete; he basically reached a point where he realized that he could go no further with the sketch or painting, leaving him to regret everything he decided not to do.

Despite these sentiments, he was proud of the piece. Rosen held it up to Big Guy, asking, "What do you think?"

Big Guy barked in response, smiling widely. Rosen laughed. "Do you even know anything about art?" he asked, setting the picture aside.

As if he wanted to prove Rosen wrong, Big Guy scanned over the scattered pile of sketches, placing his paw on the sketch of the thin girl at Rosen's doors. It tilted its head, seeming to ask who the girl was.

Tears built up at the back of Rosen's eyes as he struggled to smile at the dog. "This is Amelia," he whispered. "She was a girl I loved very much, and who loved me very much. Her parents owned this house, and they were all kind enough to let me and my families stay here as I was growing up." He smiled, remembering his parents and baby brother.

Picking his head up from the table, Big Guy turned and laid his head on Rosen's lap, the added weight almost settling Rosen's lonely heart. Tears dripped onto the dog's head. "It's all right, buddy. I am not crying because I wish that they hadn't died. I made sure that where they all went was a place of bliss, one where I could meet them someday. No, I'm crying because I remember the way it used to be. They're still alive in me, which is a wonderfully painful feeling."

He laughed as Big Guy sighed on his lap. "I bet you're hungry!" He said, wiping the tears from his eyes. "Come on! Let's go see if we can find anything down in the village."

As he stood, Amelia's portrait fell from his hand, landing lightly next to the picture he had just completed: a small girl entwined in the arms of her grandmother, standing in a field of flowers under a bright, summer sun.


	13. Chapter 12: Love's Arrows

Ch. 12: Love's Arrows

Night swirled around the small community park, stars glistening in the black sky. The pinpoints of light were all that were needed for him, his large, auburn wings flapping as he flew through the cold, spring morning. The wind whistled through his curly, dark hair as he descended into Washington state, a small wooden bench below getting larger by the second.

Eros Cupidis landed lightly amidst the jungle gyms of the child's playground, smiling at the colorful structures. While he may not have understood what proved to be so fun with these contraptions, he did understand that children enjoyed them.

In the end, that was all that truly mattered.

His heavy work boots clopped into the thick, beautifully green grass, crunching the frosted plants with each step; his red wind jacket crinkled as he walked. It had reached Eros' favorite phase of the transition, when the days were warm but nights still grasped the world in its chill. He breathed in heavily, taking in the crisp, crackling air as he smiled.

Placing a hand on the silver bow strung across his chest, Eros knelt down, his jeans pulling tight across his upper thighs. He ran a finger along the grass, several blades of which had been trampled by a recent scuffle. It wouldn't be obvious to the children playing after the sun had risen, but Eros knew battles large and small. He had fought in several throughout the centuries, had taken pleasure in it for quite a long time, but that sentiment had been lost long ago.

His red eyes danced across the battlefield, taking any detail that he could.' It was an unfair battle, to be sure,' he thought to himself, the arrows in his quiver rattling as he shifted his weight, 'Four against one… No, four against two, though one of the pair was canine and large. Probably a Saint Bernard or German Shepard. And these steps…' His fingertips brushed along the dancer's path that had originated from the human warrior. 'They're of a fencer. A skilled one at that.'

Sniffing the air, Eros was drawn to a nearby puddle of black goop; there were three more strewn around the battlefield, each releasing a stagnant odor of sulfur. Swallowing hard, Eros dabbed at the goop, stretching the sticky substance in a thin line from the puddle. "Strange," he whispered.

"My thoughts exactly."

Without a thought, Eros turned, his bow in his right hand, an arrow in his left. The string of the bow was pulled tight, ready to fire the heart-shaped arrow at whoever had followed him to this place.

"Woah, woah!" Spring Equinox shouted, a wooden plank growing from the dirt as he backed up quickly. He had seen what damage the arrows could cause and was unwilling to be on the receiving end of that attack.

The bowstring slackened as Eros returned the arrow to his quiver. His red eyes seemed to glow in a disappointed scowl. "What were you thinking, Spring? I could have killed you!"

Spring sighed, staring at the ground. "Sorry, Ros…"

"Why are you here?" Eros asked, though he knew that he had no right to ask the question. After all, he was just as much a trespasser as Spring.

"I'm looking for Rosen," Spring said, staring at the pools of black ink. "I know that this was where he went for his last Sending, but I can't find him anywhere. Stumbled on this mess just before you arrived."

Eros stood, brushing the dirt of his pants. "Yeah, one of my Cherubs flew by as something went down, though he couldn't tell me much. The Cherubs… They're not very attentive."

Spring nodded. "Might explain some of the world's weird relationships."

"Yeah," Eros mumbled, running his hand through his curly hair, "A lot of those weren't on the List." He motioned to the puddle. "Have you seen anything like this before, Spring?"

Spring bent down, his long hair falling into his eyes. He pushed it aside, looking deeply at the gunk. "I don't know. It's not Fearling blood or Nightmare sand. It's something-" spring hesitated, seeking the right words. "I don't know what it is exactly, but it feels ancient. Older even than my father, maybe older than the world." Spring looked to the tall, muscular man. "Something is happening, Eros. Something bigger than we originally thought."

Nodding, Eros' eyes closed slowly as the sun's rays broke over the horizon, the shadows on the ground below evaporating in wisps. He knew that soon, there would be no trace of it.

The air just spoke bitterly of war.

Waves crashed against the shore line as Patrick sat on the cold, hard stone of the Irish coast. The wind ripped around him, the flaps of his green Oxford blowing behind him in the gust. He watched as the fishermen towed in their catches, nets full of fish plopping onto the ships that would one day belong to their children.

It amazed him how much they took for granted in this world, how much they threw away. During his lifetime, he never once threw away something that still had purpose, but now these people replaced everything that had all but one year's use on it.

"Bollocks," he mumbled, knowing full well that no one would hear him.

He didn't remember why he came here; in truth, he hated the coastlines. The seagulls were always squawking, the water was always cold, and the sand got into spots that a person never even knew he had.

But she loved the coast. That was the only thought that seemed coherent now, the only thought that seemed real to him. Time may have blurred the memories of her flowing red hair or her smile in the darkness, but her loves came fresh to him every day. It was almost as if she were standing right there next to him, whispering them into his ear.

The Sea.

Horses.

Patrick Holloway.

He remembered the way that she looked at him on that first warm night together, just after the had met, her warm eyes staring at his over candlelight.

"Ava, dear, I miss ya'," he whispered, curling up tighter in the roaring wind. He barely heard as tiny footsteps rang out behind him in a quick gallop.

"Ay, Patrick!" Lester shouted out, his walking stick clicking loudly on the hard stone shelf. "We may have a wee bit of an issue, lad."

Patrick turned his head to glance at the fat man. "There's always wee issues springin' up in the world. Not much that we can do about it, brother. Best to just wait out the storm."

"But lad-"

"I don't want to hear it, Lester!" he barked. "This world is going down the tubes, and it's a right shame, but there's nothing that you or I or the ex-Guardians can do about it."

He turned back to the ocean, his downcast eyes watching the fisherman return to port. Lester didn't speak; the brief sound of him clenching and unclenching his walking staff were the only signs that he was still there. Patrick wished he would just go away; why he couldn't he just be left in peace?

_Thwap!_

Without warning, Lester's walking stick clocked Patrick across the back of the head. Pained tears raced into his eyes as he stood and turned toward the little man only to receive another strike between his legs. "What in Mary's name is wrong with you, ya' bloody imp?!"

"I'm tired of yer' bellyachin', Patty. You're better than this!" He shouted over the din of crashing waves. "You are a Sword-Saint, a master of the blade, capable of fellin' the Great Snake, yet yer' bein' killed by a memory! What would Ava have to say about that nonsense?!"

Patrick was about to retort the question only to receive another strike from the end of Lester's staff. "I'm not finished, lad. I have watched over ya' from the start, since ye' first took on St. Patrick's mantle, and never have I seen ye' act like such a wee brat before! This world needs us, Patrick."

"The world needs nothin'-" Another strike to the back of the head.

Lester looked at him with angry eyes. "Fine. I'll grant ye' that. The world can take care of itself."

"Then why'd ya' hit me?!"

"Because you're forgettin' one group that does need ye' to be here, Patty," he said, motioning to the village, children laughing and chasing each other through the streets. "Ye' promised them hundreds of years ago that ye'd watch out for the wee children of the world, makin' sure they never lost their innocence, and despite some hiccups along the way, you've been winnin' that battle.

"But now there's a new battle," he said motioning to the storm clouds overhead, "and we're right in the middle of it. Llorana attacked ye' for a reason, boyo, not just for sport. That lass may be gone in the head, but she don't attack nobody without need or warnin'."

Patrick spit blood into the dirt. "One we attack doesn't make a war, Les."

"It's not been one attack, Patrick. The Rose Spirit was attacked by shadows just yesterday."

Standing, Patrick cracked his neck, running his tongue over a now loose tooth. "Ah, Rosey's always stickin' his head where it don't belong, you'd better believe."

"Aye, but he's just the start! Ye' have to feel it in the air, Pat."

"I do, Lester, but what can we do?! We're just two spirits, too bloody gone most of the time that we need two to manage a simple holiday!"

Lester got in his face as best he can, floating to stare the man in the eyes. "Ye' represent something greater than just St. Patrick's Day, lad. Ye' represent St. Patrick's teachings! The enlightenment that he brought this place, the happiness that followed him." With a quick flick of his wrist, two small glints of gold fell from his sleeve onto the grass below them. "Yer' more than just a soldier in an eternal war."

Patrick stepped back at this statement, his eyes darkening from the weight of the words. "I wasn't strong enough to protect her, Lester."

"Well," Lester said, snapping his fingers, "I pray to the saints that you are now strong enough to protect the world because it needs us." Suddenly, the entire area around them was enveloped in a brilliant golden light, which dissipated to show the disappearance of Patrick Holloway and Lester Greenstockings.


	14. Chapter 13: Planned Devotion

Ch. 13: Planned Devotion

Big Guy ran ahead into the bustling village of Hammersfield, the Saint Bernard's long, furry coat bouncing with each bound. Slobber dripped from his mouth, and his green eyes shown with the happy fire of excitement that only dogs seemed capable of producing. Rosen laughed at the spectacle, at how he ran up to the children in the street, barking and rolling in the mud.

The recent rainfall had seemed to wash away the last hold of winter on the village, the air teeming with tender warmth. Rosen smiled as he walked down the sunlit boulevard, soaking in the hustle and bustle and warm hellos of the villager's daily greetings. He knew that they couldn't see or hear or touch him, but it didn't matter. Hammersfield was his home, and the echoes of the blacksmith's hammer and the chattering gossip of the village's women were what made it so great.

Hearing heavy footfalls behind him, he turned as Big Guy leapt on top of him, knocking him down into the dirt and licking his face heavily. It seemed almost impossible to him, but the sadness from before had vanished, dissipating like the smoke into the spring air. He wasn't sure whether the dog had caused it or if it was a happy coincidence, but it didn't matter; for once in a very long while, he felt happy, at peace with the world.

Pushing the big dog off proved to be a challenge, but eventually Rosen stood, brushing the mud and dirt off of his clothes, the red dress shirt and black vest having taken in the most of the debris. Smiling, Rosen bent down and patted Big Guy on the head. "I think that you were exactly what I needed, Big Guy."

Barking in reply, the dog leapt up and licked Rosen on the face, but the Rose Spirit pushed him off again, standing at his full height and looking down at the dog. "Even if you are a little overjoyed by the simplest things."

They continued on into the village, passing through the town's center. Various vendors peddled their wares from behind wooden carts, bartering fruits and vegetables to newcomers while handing out toys and noisemakers to the town's children. A bronze statue at the center of the village glistened, the likeness of Tomas Astor, the man who had taken Rosen's family into his home those many long years before. He stood there, a hammer to his heart and a plow at his feet, representing all that made Hammersfield prosperous: metalwork and farming.

One villager caught Rosen's attention, an old man where horn rimmed glasses that magnified his eyes to saucers; a white striped Oxford that hung loose on his overly thin frame; black pants with striped, red suspenders keeping them from falling down; and a red pair of loafers. Rosen smiled and waved, watching as the man stood and ran to the young spirit.

"Well, if it isn't the Rose Spirit!" he squawked, grabbing Rosen's hand and shaking it wildly. "Always a pleasure to see you, Rosen, always a pleasure."

Breaking the handshake, Rosen hugged the old man's spirit, smiling. "Enough with the official titles, Shoemaker. We've been friends for centuries now, and I'm not about to let you treat me like an equal."

"I'm more than just a shoemaker!" Shoemaker grunted, stepping back from Rosen with a disapproving glare. "I made everything in this town for years! The toys for the children, the shingles for the roofs, and yes, I did make the shoes too."

"With a little help," Rosen said, smiling.

Shoemaker stamped his feet angrily. "I made every single one of those shoes myself. It wasn't 'til I passed that the elves ever even listened to me! Were too darn lazy to make anything until I was in charge of this place's creativity."

Rosen laughed at his long-time friend. His mind flashed to a better time, where he and Amelia would run through town as children do, focused on the wonders behind the toy shop's windows and trying to determine how Stanley Shomakker could ever come up with such ingenious devices. "It's been far too long, Stanley. I've been so busy that I almost forgot my oldest friend."

"That you did, Rosey," Shoemaker said, smiling. "That you did. But I forgive you." Bending down, Stanley scratched Big Guy behind the ears, the Saint Bernard's tail whipping back and forth happily as he licked at the man's face. "Now, who's this wonderful pup?"

"That's Big Guy," Rosen said, smiling down at the two. "Actually came to get him some food. Hammer Hill's cellar pretty much ran dry a few months ago."

Nodding, the old man looked mischievously at Rosen. "Well, I guess we'll just have to remedy that." He turned and walked away quickly, waving his hand for the two to follow him. Big Guy trotted after him, following the man's exact steps, bobbing his head back and forth happily as Shomakker whistled a tune. Shaking his head, Rosen jogged after them, smiling the whole while.

Patrick felt as his insides popped as the rainbow swirl of color took over his range of vision. Every atom in his body screamed from the teleportation, the leprechaun's wormhole throwing them through the drainpipe of the universe. The light swirled around them, the world vanishing and reappearing in millisecond intervals, visions from the world over coming into view.

Lester knew that this torture for his friend, and he delighted in it, laughing as he floated around inside the portal. "Ye' look a wee bit distressed, lad! Might ye' be fancying this ride to stop?"

"Is that an option?" Patrick asked, his face glowing green from the ride.

With a twirl of his staff, Lester smiled down at the young man as the world rematerialized around them, wooden boards slamming into Patrick's face as he landed on the floor of a noisy workshop. "Aye, lad. I was just taking a wee bit of a scenic route."

Patrick gagged, kneeling on the hard wooden floor. Jingling and tiny footsteps signaled the arrival of a small elf, carrying a basket of cookies. Grabbing the basket, Patrick doubled over, throwing up into the thick wicker. The elf looked at him with wide, red eyes before running up to him and kicking him in the shins.

"Sorry, ye' bloody imp!" he yelped, rubbing his shins as the elf turned and returned to the kitchen. Looking to Lester, Patrick sighed. "Why in Mary's name are we here, Lester?"

Two massive, oaken doors slammed open nearby, a strongly built man with white hair stepping out from a large office, the mess spilling out onto the floor behind him. His jolly eyes had darkened by a modicum amount, but they still shown with the light of wonder. His red shirt and black pants seemed to shine as he walked, smiling at the two as yetis babbled away around him.

"Is always good to see friends after long time apart!" he shouted, wrapping Lester in a massive bear hug.

Lester patted him on the back, his face redder than usual as his eyes bulged slightly from the man's great strength. "North, old friend, it's been far too many moons since I last laid eyes on you. How goes business?"

"Ah, Green, is good. Christmas is long ways off and yetis are hard at work," he said happily, patting his large belly. North looked at Patrick, helping to his feet and shaking the smaller man's hand. "I see you brought guest! It is always good to see you, Shamrock."

Brushing the dust from his jeans, Patrick stood, eyeing the old man carefully. "Wasn't what ya' said last time I was here, ya' right fat sticker."

"Ah!" North chortled, patting the Irishman on the back. "You are just sore loser."

Patrick snapped, brushing North's hand off of him. "I had ya' snookered I did, when you go and cheat yer' way to victory! Hell if I've ever seen a real warrior bear hug his opponent until he loses sense!"

Lester held his sides as he laughed, the memory of it playing through his mind. "Aye! That was one of the most hilarious moments I've ever had the pleasure to see with me own eyes! Patrick screaming, 'Put me down, ya' right fat wanker,' and North shakin' him! Thought for sure he broke somethin' important when ya' just passed out like that, lad!" He flipped in the air as he laughed, the green man nothing more than a spiral of color.

"Is all in past," North said, holding his hand out to Patrick. "After all, we have much work to do."

Blinking, Patrick shook his head for a while. On any normal circumstance, he would have let his pride make the decision to refuse the olive branch and leave, but there was something in North's voice, a purity that could only be described as fear.

For Nicholas St. North to have fear, the situation must have been dire.

Patrick reached up and shook the man's hand. "Aye. Slate's clean, brother. Anything to better a good cause."

Clapping his hands over Patrick's, North smiled. "Good! Thank you, friend." He released Patrick's hand and turned, motioning for the two to follow him into his office. His heavy boots crackled as he stepped over the remnants of broken ice, the floorboards wet with melted sculptures.

Lester looked around the room, twirling in mid-air before coming to a stop on top of North's overturned desk. "I see ye've been doin' a wee bit of redecorating, North. Can't say I'm at all too fond of the new look."

"It's…" North mumbled, looking away from his friend, "Is been a hard couple of days."

Floating over to him, Lester patted him on the back, the larger man shooing him away. "Is past. Nothing to do about it except move on. Now," he said loudly, looking at the two, "How badly do you want to save the world?"


	15. Chapter 14: The Thief's Whistle

Ch. 14: The Thief's Whistle

Rain began to drip lazily onto the heads of the people of Hammersfield, drowning the playful air of the village in gray skies and sad eyes. Children were pulled through doorways by worried mothers, while the merchants began closing down their shops, the wooden carts from which they peddled covered by tarps and pieces of woods.

Jogging after the old man and the dog proved to be far more difficult than Rosen had originally anticipated, the mud hindering his progress as he slipped and slid through the thick dirt. He couldn't count the number of times that he had fallen face first into the mud, cursing and spitting the brown water from his mouth as he struggled to stand again. Stanley would simply turn around then, smiling at his friend's misstep, while Big Guy turned back every time, pulling Rosen from the mud with his massive jaws.

"Stanley!" Rosen shouted, wiping mud from his eyes. "How much farther is this place? We've been walking for almost half an hour!"

Laughing, Stanley pointed ahead of him at a low set building made of white birch. "Not far, though we'd have been there by now if it weren't for you, friend."

"We're only going to your workshop!" Rosen said, angered by the long walk in the mud.

"Well… yeah! Where else are we supposed to find food in this town? You know very well that the Crafter Elves make some of the best Chef's Salads that you have ever tasted!"

Big Guy watched the conversation, his head turning this way and that to watch the faces of the two, his mouth hanging open in a happy smile. His tongue hung loose as he shook the water from his fur, soaking the two in the smell of wet dog.

"Big Guy!" Rosen yelled, slicking the water off of his clothes and laughing. "What was that for?"

The Saint Bernard only sneezed in response, running up to the front door of the short building. Stanley opened the door into a small workshop, a carving wheel and several other woodworking tools nearby. "Welcome, Big Guy, to the house of creativity!" Stanley motioned grandly, his arms held wide at his sides. Big Guy barked happily as a group of small men walked up, their features hidden by large white masks and identical black shirts covered in sawdust.

"Welcome home, Master Shomakker!" they all shouted happily, smiling at the old man.

Stanley looked at them suspiciously, his arms crossing. "What did you break this time?" he asked, looking very seriously at them.

One in the group with electric blue hair stepped forward, straightening his shirt. "Why must you always assume, Master, that we have made a mistake whenever we come to greet you?"

"Because their hasn't been a time of yet where you greeted me without a need to!" He yelled, looking them over with his good eye. "Just tell me what it is!"

A little one, hair pink and frazzled, stepped forward, head down. "We didn't break anything, sir!"

Stanley stepped over them, glancing around the workshop. In a far corner of the small space, glass was sprayed across the floor, refracting the sunlight through their crystal edges. Rain poured in through the opening soaking the tool set beneath. "You can't be serious!" he shouted, looking back at the elves. "Who broke the window? And don't lie!"

"The bird man!" shouted one of the elves.

"The man with the feathers!" yelled another.

"The whistling man!" Eventually the group broke out into a rushed, babbling explanation, each talking at the same time as its companions. Stanley tried to direct their attention, but it was useless; they were now focused on a large battle with their own memories, unsure as to how to describe what had happened.

Rosen stepped over the group, panting from the run. Something felt off about the elves' descriptions of the thieves, and it worried Rosen. Having heard similar tales in the past, he wanted to be sure that the creature had arrived in Hammersfield. "By any chance, were his feathers black? Were they covering his whole body?"

"Yes!" one shouted. "Black feathers, scary face!"

Nodding, Rosen stood. "Nightingale," he mumbled, looking through the window, thinking through everything as fast as he could. Stanley watched him, unsure of what to do or say. He'd heard that name before, but wasn't sure where.

It didn't take long for him to come to a decision; he walked back to the workshop's door, grabbing a coat from the nearby rack. "Stanley, I need you to look around, see if anything is missing."

"What're you going to do, Rosen?"

Rosen turned, watching as Big Guy ran to his side, a determined glow behind his eyes. "I'm going to catch a thief," he said, slipping the coat on and returning to the torrent.

Patrick leaned back in the thick wooden chair, the red cushions comfortable as he sat listening to North. They had been there for a long while, listening to North explaining all that had happened. From the summoning of the Guardians to the arrival of The Guardian Angel and Tsar Lunar to the disbanding of the group, Nicholas St. North left little to the imagination, detailing every little event involved in the situation.

There was sadness in his eyes as he spoke; Patrick noticed this, and he was sure that Lester had to. North leaned forward in his chair, legs bouncing and eyes darting about nervously.

It was a strange sight, a man of purity and strength that had lost all purpose in his life.

"Just as Jack Frost and Tooth Fairy leave workshop, they feared the worst for children. I did too, but could not face reality of what was going on. The children need protectors, especially now. I can feel it in my belly!" He shouted, grabbing the large bundle of fat and jiggling it. "Then I got to thinking. The children have protectors, spirits who want more for them than even Guardians could provide. Guardians may not be able to work as group, but that does not mean that we cannot protectors."

"So that's where we fall into place, aye?" Patrick asked, rubbing his tired eyes. "We have to fill in for the once great and powerful Guardians in one of the greatest calamities since the Dark Ages?"

North laughed. "Yes! Good that you listen to story!"

"Are you gone in the head?!" Patrick shouted. North looked at him surprised, confusion dancing in his eyes. Shamrock stood, slamming his hands onto the overturned desk. "How do I know Michael won't get a wee bit angry about our interferin' as we're fightin' for ya? He might just get the inklin' to smite us before we even get started!"

"Patty," Lester said, attempting to calm his friend down.

Staring at the little man with cold eyes, Patrick quieted him before anymore could be said. "Don't ye start, Les. Ya' know very well that I speak the truth, that this right fat monster is sending us to our deaths. I almost passed into the land of the greenest grass already this week, I'm not chancin' that again!"

"And what about the children?!" Lester shouted, matching Shamrock's steely eyes with his own. "Ye' promised to help!"

"I did no such thing, ye' wanker! Ye pulled me here with o' your bloody coins! Not quite a willing vacation if ya' ask me! More like abduction!"

The bearded head of Nicholas St. North shook from side to side, his tattooed arms crossing as he watched the shouting match. For minutes that seemed to have stretched into hours, the two friends screamed at each other over the icy floor, the broken desk and the misplaced papers all that was standing between them.

North couldn't stand it anymore. He trusted these two to help the world, save it from the darkness, but they were hardly what he was expecting. He was about to stop them as the door swung open forcefully, a blast of ice freezing Patrick and Lester in place.

"Wow, they're loud…" Jack Frost mumbled, tapping his staff against his shoulder as he walked into the cold room that used to be North's office.

With a loud snap, Spring burst through the bark of the birch on the outskirts of Hammer Hill Mansion. He sighed as he brushed the bark off his skin and clothes. He had always hated birch, a wood that was very durable thus hard to transport through. The ancient home stood nearby, ivy having overtaken the majority of the beautiful structure. However, the house was not what he was looking for.

In truth, he was worried about Rosen. Though he had defeated the shadow men, the Rose Spirit was being targeted by someone or something. Though he was sure that Rosen would be safe here in Hammersfield, there was no guarantee that the spirit's friend was not followed here.

Approaching the heavy wooden door, Spring Equinox knocked loudly, hoping to receive the answer. When one didn't come, he peeked into the building's windows, expecting to find Rosen passed out on the couch but not finding him.

"Where are you, Rosen?" Spring mumbled, turning toward the village at the bottom of the hill. The small berg was beautiful, even more so in the pouring rain, but he couldn't see any trace of Rosen. "Well, it couldn't hurt to go down and look…" He stepped forward into the mud, sliding down the hill using the water to propel him faster as he sped down the hill.


	16. Chapter 15: Lyrical Feathers

Ch. 15: Lyrical Feathers and Laughing Pumpkins

Thunder crackled overhead as Rosen panted around the corner of the town's clock tower, the tall structure ticking down to ten o'clock. He had been running for what felt like hours, Big Guy running ahead of him and sniffing at the ground. The Saint Bernard would bark every once in a while, but they had made little progress in their search.

Claw marks and feathers littered the mud, far too large for a normal bird to have produced. They were proof that the two companions were closing in on their target, but this didn't give Rosen hope. It seemed almost too perfect, too laid out, to be a mistake; Nightingale would not have been so careless to simply leave this trail for anyone to find.

Closing his eyes, Rosen felt Thorn's welcome weight appear in his hand.

It didn't take long for the pair to become hopelessly lost, their own trail marred and melted in the rain. Rosen cursed, not recognizing any of the landmarks in the immediate area. The darkness and rain hid even the large clock tower from view, and this neighborhood was foreign to Rosen, a ramshackle home for the poor and destitute where even Rosen's family had not even dared to live.

Rosen heard a growl in front of him as Big Guy shot off into the darkness, sensing something ahead. Following at a quick clip, his lungs burning, Rosen heard a yelp and curse, the dog having found its target.

Suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, a loud, high-pitched whistle rang out into the night. As Rosen turned the corner into the alleyway, he was struck by the full force of the sound, stopping him in his tracks. It felt as if his whole body had shut down, his mind freezing and limbs refusing his commands. In front of him, Big Guy was laying on the ground, his eyes wide and hair on end as he listened to the screech.

The whistling stopped as the source cackled, a small man sitting on his haunches on the nearest roof. His face, arms and back were covered in black feathers, each reflecting the light from the street lamps. Grey skin appeared wherever the feathers did not, and a long, grey hooked nose poked out from its face. Claws were at the end of each arm, talons at the end of each leg. Black pants hung loosely over his thin legs, the only clothing on the creature's body.

"Little baby Rose Bud,

Stumbles on the scene,

Most likely thinking that

Nightingale is mean!" He continued cackling at his rhyme, bouncing up and down across the roof. His winged arms stretched wide as he jumped down, running over to Big Guy, who had started to stand again. The feathers on Nightingale's body began vibrating, releasing the whistle again, forcing the dog to collapse again as it whimpered in pain.

"You piece of crap!" Rosen struggled to say through his stiffened jaw. "Leave him alone!"

Nightingale's head jerked wildly like a normal bird's, a small pouch swinging loosely from his back. "Would the spirit,

Of wandering children,

Prefer I turn,

My attention to him?" The singsong voice in which he spoke carried down the alleyway as the bird man flew toward the young spirit.

"Does the spirit,

The guardian of souls,

Wish to pass,

And not be whole?" His claws ran the length of Rosen's chest, forcing him to cringe as they drew scarlet blood. The creature laughed as it slashed out at the boy's chest, causing him to scream as blood dripped to the ground below.

"Not much fight,

Do you put up,

The fencer is dying,

Who would have though?!"

"Shut up!" Rosen shouted. The whistle's effects had worn off, giving him control of his body again as he swung Thorn at the amalgamation. The strike missed, Nightingale's wings spreading and propelling him into the air. "Dang…" Rosen mumbled, kneeling to ground as his exposed wound burned in the rain.

"Little baby Rose Bud,

Wants to fight the bird!

Pity he cannot fly,

He will go to the dirt!" Nightingale dove at the kneeling fencer, claws stretched forward at the young man while he was weakest. This was an easy victory for the thief, his eyes on the shining blade in Rosen's hand. With one swift, final attack, the spirit would be dead and Nightingale would be rich!

Closing his eyes, Rosen felt the strength leave him and his stomach lurch. The time had come, his true time of passing. He had feared it before but that fear had left him long ago. One cannot ferry children's souls to the other side and not hopefully anticipate the time wherein they receive that gift themselves. He knew that he couldn't fight, so he wouldn't.

A crack. A yelp.

The attack never came.

"Open your eyes, you idiot!" screamed a familiar voice. Looking to the sky, Rosen saw his friend, Spring Equinox, suspended on a broad tree trunk growing from the roof of one of the homes, a stupid grin on his face. The branches of the tree were moving, stretching and clawing at the air, attempting to reach the screaming Nightingale. "What kind of fencer closes his eyes and gives up?! The dog's still fighting!"

Sure enough, Big Guy had stood and was climbing the tree's branches, getting almost high enough to reach the bird man. Nightingale cursed, flapping his wings faster to rise higher into the air.

"You will not stop me,

You spirit of Spring!

I will gain my prize!

I will win!" It shouted, diving again toward Thorn. Rosen tried standing, tried fighting back, but could do nothing.

"I don't think so," Spring said, smiling.

Big Guy leaped from the tree branches, slamming his massive canine form into Nightingale, the two careening down into the mud below. The force of the collision was enough to force the amalgam to gasp from the pain, all 145 pounds of Big Guy landing on top of his small body. Looking back at Rosen, the bird man motionless beneath him, Big Guy released a happy bark, smiling back at the man.

"Jack, good to see you back!" North said, standing and stomping over to the young, white-haired man leaning against the door frame to the office. "What have you found out, friend?"

Jack shook his head, pushing his hood down off of his hair. "No more than we already knew, North. Checked on the attack in Washington, but nothing. Not even a single grain of Nightmare sand or Fearling dust. I can't help but feel Pitch has nothing to do with any of this."

North paced around the office, snow and ice popping under his feet. "Well, we know it cannot be Monkey King."

"No. He's still locked up for his last attack against Tooth," Jack said, remembering the fight that he had taken a part of just a few months before, the ape-man leading an army against Toothiana's palace. "But who else could it be? Samhain?"

North shivered from the use of that name but shook his head. "Samhain Shadowgrasp is not behind this. He signed treaty with Guardians last millennium. Too honorable to break it."

"A spirit of fear being too honorable?" Jack asked, staring at the frozen forms of Patrick Holloway and Lester Greenstockings. "Anyway, what's with the two goons?"

"Ah, Lester is old friend!" North said, laughing. He patted his belly as he watched the two slowly thaw out. "Patrick is old friend of Lester's. I decided to bring in outside help because of the dissolution of Guardians."

"Not a bad idea," Jack said, distracted by a smashing sound outside.

North ran to the door. "Hey! Be more careful! The toys are most important!" Swinging the door open, he gasped, watching as the yetis swung their heavy arms at balls of shadow. The spheres of darkness morphed and boiled, each shifting between different images of fire and fat men and monsters. The yetis screamed, fighting as best they could, but they were afraid, their babbling become faster and more incoherent as they ran from the black liquid.

"What in world?!" North shouted, pulling his swords from a nearby wall and running into the fray.


	17. Chapter 16: The Crow's Call

"Leave my workshop, monsters!" North yelled, swinging both of the large blades with incredible strength. He cut through one orb and another, the liquid shadows bubbling and dissolving with each strike. The creatures were strange, unlike anything he had seen before in his many years as a Guardian. They resembled Fearlings in many senses, their bodies' made of purest darkness and terror. But the way they moved, the way they attacked… It was different.

These creatures were becoming what their opponents feared most.

Sneaking up on North, one of the monsters began to widen, attempting to envelope the massive man in the many folds of its liquid prison. Turning, North cut through the creature's center, but the shadows simply reformed. The light began to be blotted out around North, images flashing around his mind's eye: children crying, his friends hurt, the workshop in ruins. Each thought danced in front of him as if they were actually happening, forcing him to collapse to his knees as if a great weight had been tied to his waist. The swords clanked heavily on the ground as they fell from his hands.

Suddenly, the creature screamed, twisting in a tornado of black liquid. At first, North believed it to be moving in to finish him, but the final attack never came, the shadows hissing as they fell to the ground in a puddle of ink.

Looking around, North saw Jack Frost flying overhead, his staff firing blasts of ice at the attackers, freezing them in place and curdling the liquid. One by one the creatures fell by Jack's hand, the spirit of Winter laughing as he swung his staff at the closest ink ball and splattered the creatures remains against the wall of the workshop.

"I owe you one, comrade!" North shouted, running forward and leaping off the banister into the lower workshop, his blades positioned below him as he fell. With a heavy thunk, the white bearded man landed onto the workshop floor, smiling as he swung his way through the oncoming army. They were leaking in under the front door like rain water, each forming as they reached the open air of the building. Their numbers seemed to be endless, but they were not difficult to defeat, and North could continue fighting for hours like this.

A battle cry and a laugh came from above, a heavily armored man landing next to North as he swung his cross-shaped blade through the nearest creature. "Aye, you right fat bastard," Patrick, smiling, "Ain't it a wee bit selfish to be takin' this fight on all by yer' lonesome? Trying to cheat yer' way to bein' the best swordsman around, I can see clearly!"

"Ah!" North yelled over the din of battle. "Do we have friendly wager then?"

"Whoever takes down the most of these wankers from this point on wins," Patrick said, his heavy blade cleaving an ink beast in half.

North laughed, spinning and cutting as Lester shot out of the office overhead. "You have deal, Shamrock!"

A hacking cough echoed around another work shop half the world away, and water splashed onto the wooden floors of Stanley Shomakker's home. Nightingale sat forward, his metallic feathers sticking together as he coughed water from his lungs. Rosen watched him closely while holding a large wooden bucket, water brimming over the top. It happened to be one of the Shoemaker's inventions, a self-filling bucket that never ran empty. The Rose Spirit didn't quite understand the mechanics of the machine, but it was useful for subduing a monster like Nightingale.

"So I'm going to ask again," Rosen said as his red eyes flashed dangerously. "Who are you working for?"

Nightingale cackled, spitting dirty water onto the floor of the shop.

"Hard to say,

This answer you seek.

I would have told you by now,

But I am far from meek."

A snap echoed around the room nearby as Spring stepped forward, a thick vine wrapping its way around Nightingale's body and constraining the creature's movements. Spring's eyes shined a deep green, a darkness edging its way into the light. "You are far more resilient than I gave you credit for, Nightingale. You see, I thought that when we tied you down, taking away your precious flight, you'd say anything to get away from us."

"Far from it,

You worrisome child.

Me thinkest that

You are facing denial," Nightingale cackled, his feathers twitching as his head jerked around. They clanked heavily, weighed down by the water.

Spring smiled, displaying his sparkling white teeth. "I am far from being in denial, you rotten chicken. You're not strong," he said, kneeling down beside the bird man, "You're simply more afraid of the consequences of telling us than you are afraid of us. Am I right?"

"I do not believe,

That I understand your thinking.

It is possible that you have found,

A fearful inkling.

While it is true that I do not fear you,

It is far from truth that another scares me.

I am free to do as I please,

My master knows this and lets me flee." He struggled against his bonds as he attempted to vibrate his feathers, but the two friends had planned for this occasion; having heard tales about the feathered bandit, they knew that his feathers would stick together when exposed to large amounts of water. His struggling was in vain.

"So you are working for someone?!" Rosen said, eyeing the creature warily. "Why is he attacking me? Why am I being singled out?!"

For once, the bird man seemed to have been stunned into silence, his mouth open in a wide circle. "The Grand Master will not like,

That I have revealed his presence,

But you must know,

That you are hardly sentenced

To a singular battle

For others are sought

Whether for allies or enemies,

Battles are fought.

You are simply a threat,

You ferryman of souls,

You will die here,

In Hammersfield's holes!"

Standing, Spring looked to Rosen, who's hand had begun stroking Big Guy's fur absentmindedly. The younger spirit looked worried, his scarlet eyes distant and wary. It finally occurred to Spring the extent of Rosen's recent battles. He was caked in mud and muck, his clothes tattered and wrinkled. With a nod of his head, he motioned for Rosen to follow him out of the workshop, thoughts dancing around his mind.

"Are you alright, Rosen?" Spring asked as Rosen closed the heavy wooden door to the workshop. Rain continued to assault the buildings and families of Hammersfield, thunder hammering through the sky as the lightning sparks careened to the ground below.

Shaking his head, Rosen sat on the ground. "How can I be a threat, Spring? I'm little more than a glorified Grim Reaper."

Spring shivered, the black hooded monster spirit's visage spinning through his mind. "Trust me, Rose. You are no Grim Reaper…"

"I just don't understand," Rosen said, looking at the thick floorboards of the home and thinking through all that had happened. He simply wanted to do his job; he thrived in the world because he brought children and parents peace, but now he was being hunted because he posed a threat to a plan that he didn't even know existed. Big Guy sensed the hurt in his friend's eyes and laid down next to him, laying his head and heavy jowls on the man's leg.

Spring knelt down looking his longtime friend in the eyes. "You don't have to. At least by yourself. Think about it. He said you're not alone, and he's right. You got me and that massive furry monster. Plus you've got whoever else was attacked," he said hopefully, smiling. "We'll just have to gather everyone together and find this so called 'Grand Master.'" Holding his hand out, Spring helped Rosen to his feet.

"OK," Rosen said, nodding, a faint glimmer of hope dancing in his eyes. The two turned to return to the workshop, but a massive crash of glass and wood rang out followed by the flap of heavy wings. Running into the room, the three friends saw that the vines were scattered across the floor alongside a scattered pile of broken glass, metal feathers, and rain water.

Nightingale had escaped.

Panting, Patrick Holloway wiped the sweat from his eyes as he walked up the long stair well into Nicholas St. North's office. He fell into the thick red guest chair, laughing a little from the adrenaline surge. It had been a long while since he had enjoyed such a prolonged and death-defying battle. The creatures were many even if they were not formidable.

With a sigh, he looked out the door to the landing of the stairwell, the puddles of shadowy ink evaporating in the cold sunlight streaming in through the high set windows. North trudged his way up the stairs, sitting heavily across from Shamrock in his velvet throne. "Beautiful battle, friend!" He panted, dropping the swords to the floor.

"Aye, you too, Nicholas. But I got 78. What was yer' count?"

Laughing, Nicholas leaned back in the spinning throne, putting his huge hands to his eyes. "Exactly 78."

"You right liar!" Patrick shouted standing. Footsteps behind him barely distracted him from the current situation, but he did notice Jack Frost and Lester entering the office.

"Would ya' quit bickerin', you wee brat?!" Lester said, yawning and stretching from the battle. "We all did well. Drove back whatever those were."

Jack nodding, leaping onto and crouching on the top of his staff. "Yeah, it was a good battle, but what were they?"

"I can answer that," a voice said with a cackle, echoing around the small office. Chains burst through the window behind North, and in the blink of an eye, the rotund man was ripped from their sight followed by a green blur that was Lester. Chains flew at the remaining two warriors, but with a swing of a sword and a blast of ice, Jack and Patrick fought back against the onslaught.

A man appeared in front of them, his thick, messy hair spiked with gel as he straightened his light and deep v-neck. Chains hung from his neck, each with a different key like pendant, and he wore rings on several of his fingers. His eyes burned a cruel orange as he smirked at the two.

"They were my Pumpkin Soldiers!" He shouted, clapping his hands together.

Patrick's blade appeared at the center of the man's face, pointing dangerously, at the bridge of his nose. "And who in heaven or hell might you be?"

Laughing, the man gripped the end of the claymore. "Why… I'm Nicodemus Crow!" He laughed, spinning and throwing the armored man against the hard wooden wall.


	18. Chapter 17: Fearful Chains

Ch. 17: Fearful Chains

Patrick slid slowly down the wall that he had collided with, stars dancing gracefully in front of his eyes. He tried to shake them free, to ready himself for battle again, but to no avail; it had been quite a long time since he had been hit like that.

Needless to say, he didn't want it to happen again.

Staff raised against the new foe, Jack Frost jumped backward into the workshop, playing lightly on the globe as Nicodemus Crow sauntered after him, his hands in his over-tight pockets.

"You know," Nicodemus started, smiling cockily at the winter spirit, "This would go a whole lot easier if you simply just came with me. No chains, no nothing."

Jack laughed, sending a blast of ice at the boy. "Not on your life!" He shouted, leaping forward. With a swift swing, his staff slammed into Crow's jaw, knocking him back a step. Jack stepped forward, continuing the assault as he twirled his staff.

In retaliation, Crow held up his hands, massive chains crashing through the floor of North's workshop with minds of their own. They sped toward Jack, following his every movement as he jumped and dodged the metal snakes.

Laughing, Crow returned to North's office, closing the doors to find Patrick struggling from his spot on the floor. Barely audible sounds of destruction and falling metal were all that could be heard from outside. Pacing toward Shamrock, Nicodemus smiled, kneeling down beside the Sword-Saint. "So, you're the great Shamrock Sword-Saint, aye? My brother's told me all about you!" he crooned, flicking Patrick's head back so that he could look him in the eyes.

With what little strength he had, Patrick spit into Nicodemus' face, coughing up, "Yeah? Can't say that I've had the pleasure of meetin' 'im."

"Oh," Crow said with a dismissive wave of his hand, "You have, though you've probably never heard of me. See, my brother… You and him tend to fight a lot!"

Patrick's eyes widened, recognition taking hold as the man's orange eyes brought to mind several of his past battles. "You're Samhain's brother?!" He yelped as he attempted to push himself through the wall that was currently supporting him.

"The one and only," he said. Reaching forward, Nicodemus grabbed Patrick's face, leaning in close enough for the spirit to smell the pumpkin seeds on the other's breath and see into the heart of the man's orange eyes. There was evil there, pure and incorruptible; the golden sphere's bored into Patrick's mind, sifting through the pain and experiences buried there. He couldn't tear his gaze away, even though his body struggled and shivered from just the man's touch.

Crashes and yells echoed from the workshop, and Crow laughed, ripping his gaze away from Patrick. "So that is all you're afraid of?" he asked, leaning cockily against North's overturned desk.

Spitting on the ground, Patrick tensed and slid up the wall slightly before crumpling back onto the ground. "Yeah bloody right, ye' orange eyed freak! I ain't scared of anythin'!" The yell did not contain as much force as Patrick intended, sputtering and falling apart as it passed his lips, the words hindered by the weakness in his body. His limbs were numb, blood pumping and crackling just under the skin.

Crow simply smiled, twisting one of the strands of rigid hair in his thin fingers. "Do you want to see a magic trick?" he asked, seemingly not paying attention to Shamrock's statement.

"What in the hells are ya' talking about, you right monster?!" Patrick retorted, his mind feeling stronger than his body.

Crow stood, his onyx rings glinting in the light of the room. He leaned low, hands extended in front of him as light blue smoke appeared above his hands. They twirled and danced above his fingertips, appearing to form a light, translucent image. A woman laid in the palm of his hand, flickering blood seeping from a wound in her stomach and from the corner of her lip.

"You bastard!" Patrick yelled, leaning forward in an attempt to throttle the man but only succeeding to fall onto the hard wood floor.

A ticking noise came from the pale man's mouth. "Now, now, now! Is that anyway to speak in front of your late wife, Ava?"

Patrick tensed, a small tear escaping from his eye as he growled at the man. The numbness from the attack had faded, but a claw had gripped his heart, a stone lodging itself in his throat. His extremities shook, and he forced back a sob as he watched his wife lay dead in another's hands.

"You look distressed, Mr. Holloway!" Crow laughed, glistening fangs replacing his canines. "Could it be that the great Shamrock Sword-Saint is… Afraid?!" When Patrick didn't respond, the man in black stood, twirling the image around in his hand. "You know, after my brother retired, Halloween became so… inane, so unneeded. It became a holiday for little brats who no longer feared the night. I think it's time to add a little fear to their diet, don't you think?"

Patrick watched as the man circled the room, examining each of North's instruments before smashing them with his hands. "They, like you," he continued, still smashing the tools, "live in the lie that they have no fear when really they fear more than most. You see, the worst fears are the ones that stem from us, that originate withus as the cause!" The blue Ava floated in front of Patrick's face, shifting and morphing until it became his wife's smiling face. "You see, you fear no enemy, Patrick Holloway, but you do fear yourself. You fear that you're weak! That you aren't able to protect anyone. After all," he muttered darkly with a smirk, leaning down and whispering into Patrick's ear, "You couldn't even save the woman that you loved."

The noises outside barely registered to Patrick, the screams and rattling chains hardly mattering as his eyes became blank spheres and his heart shattered. He simply lay shaking on the ground, his body refusing all of his commands as if it too had realized that he had lost. Crow stood and laughed, grabbing his stomach as the sound rang out through the room. "You really are pathetic!" he shouted, "You know, when Llorana lost to you, I was sure that you at least put up some kind of fight before that fat bastard Greenstockings came and saved your sorry backside, but now I see you're hardly worth the trouble of me killing you!"

The doors to the room crashed open, revealing a hell of paint and splintered wood behind it path as the serpentine chains returned to their master, carrying Jack Frost in its cold metallic clutches. "Ah, Mr. Frost!" Crow shouted joyfully, sliding on the ice over to the hooded spirit. "I see you decided to join the party. Good thing too! We needed someone who knew how to have fun!" Pointing at Patrick, he laughed. "This stickler is just too out of sorts to be any use to throwing a party." He turned and began walking toward the shattered window.

"Wait, you right bastard!" Patrick yelled, his voice monotonous and broken from the emotions dancing through his body.

"Why?" Nicodemus asked, snapping his fingers and disappearing with Jack Frost, Nicholas St. North, and Lester Greenstockings.

Nightingale's metal feathers jangled as he flew over the low buildings of the United Kingdom, the night alive with laughter and alcohol. He had no time to be distracted by the scenes below, already late.

The Grand Master didn't like it when he was late.

The feathered flyer approached Big Ben, the clock ringing out midnight. Sniffing the air, his fanged smile shone in the moonlight. The witching hour… It always brought with it such interesting tastes and smells in the night air, sensations that seemed to pull on the power within him, making him stronger. Metal jangled against metal as he shivered, the power coursing through him.

Wood cracked as his talons landed heavily on the roof of the giant clocktower. A man stood in front of him, eyes scanning the city below as a hood hid his features. He stood taller than most men, and though Nightingale couldn't see his face, power emanated from it. The air shook with his strength as he turned slowly toward the kneeling creature.

"You're late," he said, mouth hidden in shadow.

"Yes Grand Master,

The Rose Spirit captured me,

But do not fear,

The learned nothing.

Your identity is safe,

Oh powerful leader,

Please do not harm,

This weary feather!" Nightingale mumbled the last verse, cringing as the man stepped toward him.

"You didn't kill Rosen than?" The hooded man did not sound angry but contemplative. His voice itself wasn't very different from any others, but the words rang out without emotion. They were far from monotonous, but they sounded above such a human concept.

Nightingale gulped, staring at the roof of the clock tower. "No, my lord,

He found help,

The spirit of this transition,

That stupid welp,

Joined in the battle.

As I dove,

The killing blow

For which I strove,

Stolen by a tree…"

The man held up his hand, halting the bird man's lyric. Nightingale continued mouthing the poem as the man spoke, unable to stop the words as they came. "It matters little. One of the others will simply have to finish your job for you," he said turning back to the city below him. "It's awe-inspiring how incredibly inane these humans are. They simply go about their business, completely ignoring what's around them as if they were trying to do it. It wasn't like this in the old times," He mumbled absent-mindedly, most likely forgetting that Nightingale was even there. Sitting, the Grand Master pulled his legs to his chest, smiling.

"Back then, they feared us."


	19. Chapter 18: The Golden Eye

Ch. 18: The Golden Eye

Heavy footsteps pulled Patrick from his daze. He must have lost consciousness soon after Nicodemus Crow's retreat and felt as if he had been laying in that spot for days. Pain ripped through him as he tried turning his head to see who had woken him, and broken ice and wood cut into his cheek as it dragged along the floor.

From his location, Patrick could see very little of who had joined him. Light seemed to pour out of him, his body emitting a soft glow as he walked to the destroyed wall of Nicholas St. North's office, his long black hair falling into his eyes as he shook his head.

"You fools," he whispered, sighing through clenched teeth, "I warned you not to get involved."

A veil of darkness fell over Patrick's eyes as he retreated back into his own mind, refracted light searing his eyes as the man flew away.

"What do you mean he got away?!" Stanley Shomakkers voice cracked as he yelled at Spring Equinox and Rosen Dane, the two shuffling slightly as the old man screamed. The elves were all busy toiling away at their toys and machines, snickering slightly at the sight. Several grumbled as they cleaned up the broken glass from in front of the window, the sound of hundreds of tiny hammers pounding away at the wood signaled that several were hard at work on putting in a new one.

Spring's green eyes looked to the floor, contemplating disappearing through the floorboards of the wooden shack.

"We're sorry," the two mumbled in tandem, feet shifting back and forth uncomfortably on the wood floor.

Stanley visibly relaxed, the muscles in his neck becoming less bound and constrained. "Well, at least you boys are fine… And at least you got back what he stole."

Rosen's eyes widened at the statement, his stomach clenching as he remembered the creature's bag. It was only a fractional movement, and it lasted for only a moment, but the Shoemaker noticed it, his eyes narrowing.

"You did get back my equipment, didn't you?" he asked like a grandfather trying to guilt his grandchildren into telling the truth.

Spring gulped, his thin hand running through his thick red and green hair. "Well… We never thought he'd get away, so we never thought to-"

"YOU DIDN'T GET BACK MY EQUIPMENT!?" he shouted, muscles tensing yet again as the elves slipped slowly out of the workshop. "OF ALL THE HAIRBRAINED, IDIOTIC, YELLOW BELLY EXCUSES! YOU DIDN'T THINK ABOUT IT!" He panted heavily from the strain of yelling, eyeing the two dangerously.

Rosen cast a sideways glance at Spring, who nodded slightly. "We really are sorry. We will pay for and help you rebuild what you have lost," Rosen said, speaking slowly and patiently in an attempt to placate the man.

"What was taken can't be replaced, Rosen! It's been in my family for years. It's incredibly important to me, and I cannot believe that you just let the thief go!" Stanley said, speaking in the calm tone of disappointment that only long time parents could perfect.

The pair would have preferred that he continued yelling.

"If you don't mind me asking," Spring said, hands resting lightly in his sweatshirt's pockets, "what _was_ taken?"

Stanley sighed, opening a nearby drawer and removing a small picture. He handed it to Rosen. A small man, eyes dancing wildly with excitement stood in front of the pyramids of Giza; behind him, an excavation team was pulling covered artifacts from the tomb of all shapes and sizes. The man with the excited eyes held something toward the camera: a small pendant that looked like an eye hung from a thin, dark string as he smiled. "This is the Eye of Horus. Not the one on display in museums and such, but the real Eye. It's a talisman that is capable of several powerful counter-enchantments, and my father found it while working in the Pyramids."

Rosen blinked, holding the frail, aged picture in his hands. "So you're saying that this is a powerful artifact?"

"Aye, my boy," Stanley mumbled, looking through the nearly completed window.

"It doesn't make sense," Rosen thought aloud, "Why would Nightingale need counter-enchantments?"

Shaking his head, Spring sat down lightly on a wooden stool, a small elf yelling at him as he barely missed sitting on it. "Not a clue, but a better question is why are spirits being targeted?"

Stanley shook his head, eyes dancing as raindrops splashed in the muddy puddles. "There is a storm coming boys, one that none of are prepared for. I'm not sure when or where it'll hit, but when that day comes, we'd better batten down the hatches because chaos flood like a river."

A shriek escaped into the night sky as Nightingale descended onto a small grassy hill, his metal wings flickering as moonlight cast itself over the creature. Its head twitched, dancing around the landscape as he searched for his destination. The entrance had eroded over the past few years, and it made his search that much more difficult.

By accident it seemed, he stumbled upon his objective, nearly stumbling into the massive, gaping hole that led into the depths of the hillside. Spreading his claws, Nightingale clung to the sides of the hole, working his way slowly down into the darkness.

His feet hit solid ground, and a shiver ran down his spine. Nearby, a broken metal globe covered in lights stood, the only light in that dark place. Cages and stones lay throughout the cold expanse as he walked. The metal feathers on his back clinked and jangled as he walked, fear causing him to shake uncontrollably.

A voice in the darkness, cold and choked, rang out. "To what do I owe the pleasure of a new guest?" He had a light accent, one that was pleasing to the ear, but discomforting to the heart.

"Lord Kozmotis,

The Boogeyman himself!

I come to break you free with this,

A gift from an old man's shelf!" Nightingale chimed, smiling as he walked the black robed form of the Boogeyman stumble out of the darkness and lean against the bars of his prison. His gray face and yellow eyes shone out through the shadows, not with the strength of old but with a forlorn sickness.

"You know very well, Poet, that I cannot be freed," Pitch Black mumbled, his fists white as he touched the bars of his cage. An almost imperceptible glow shone from the metal bars as he stood there, a pale, electric blue that glimmered in the darkness. "Your master made very sure of that."

Nightingale chuckled, gripping the strings of his knapsack as he knelt down. He clawed his way into the bag and produced a glowing, golden pendant.

"My master has ways,

Of doing what others cannot.

He has sent me with this,

So that you may not rot.

Simply, he asks,

For your allegiance,

Than perhaps you can be freed

From this horrible happenstance."

Pitch shook his head, the thick black strands of hair on his head wobbling slightly as he beaked nose hung low through the bars. "You must think me a fool, you metal feathered freak! Your master does not want my help! He wants me dead!"

A voice echoed from the darkness, the cold, forgotten voice that Nightingale had spoken to atop of Big Ben. "Far from it, Pitch," the Grand Master said, appearing from the darkness beside Pitch's cage. "You are one of my oldest friends, after all, despite the difference in our ages."

"Then why the bars, you buffoon?! Why trap me in my own domain!?" Pitch barked, slamming his hands against the bars of the cage as a large electric shock shot through him, shooting him to the other side of the cage.

The Grand Master smiled from the folds in his hood, shifting the large metal breastplate to a more comfortable position. "Why, to punish you!" he shouted as if it were obvious. "You are my friend, but you do not get in contact with me or warn me about your attack plan. Maybe you wouldn't have failed if you had had my help, Kozmotis."

"That is no longer my name, Grand, nor do you have any right to use it. You saw me as little more than a beast with delusions of grandeur, but in the end, I was winning!"

Grand shook his head, staring into the cage from the depths of the shadows. "You were defeated by the Guardians. You were a liability to me, and to all of us."

"But I set in motion the plan! You said so yourself. That was not my intention, mind you, but that should not matter!" Pitch was begging now, his hair sizzling from the electric shock.

"You forced the plan into motion even though it was not ready. Luckily, the Guardians have been defeated and thrown into Crow's prison, but in the end, the plan was still being prepared," Grand said, looking into Pitch's yellow eyes with black spheres of his own. "However, I'm willing to look past these transgressions, my friend, if you agree to help me once more."

Pitch's eyes danced momentarily with hope as he stood, but that hope was dashed by the glowing blue barrier. "But I thought you said that the barrier, once instituted, would allow none to pass through and that it could not be taken down."

"Every spell has a counter-spell," Grand said, waving his hand at Nightingale as he the creature stalked forward with the pendant. Holding the eye like a knife, the bird man stabbed the eye into the barrier, which sputtered and faded, the blue glow disappearing. The cage door swung open, and Pitch Black stepped forward, looking down at his hand as black sand floated around him. Far off in the farthest reaches of the cave, the cackles and cries of Fearlings could be heard.

The Grand Master stepped forward. "Do I have your word, Pitch Black, that you will fight alongside me until our day of victory has arrived." His thick, gloved hand extended, and he watched as the spirit of Fear gripped his hand, surrounding them all in nightmare sand. "Pitch Black has returned!" He shouted from the confines of the storm, whisking the three to a far-off corner of the world.


End file.
